


Benediction

by makeit_takeit



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Closeted Character, Developing Relationship, Dick Pics, Ethical Dilemmas, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Online Relationship, Rare Pairings, Rare Relationships, Religious Guilt, Self-Acceptance, Self-Discovery, Self-Doubt, Slow Burn, Social Media
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:42:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 55,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21944530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makeit_takeit/pseuds/makeit_takeit
Summary: The first instinct Mark has isdelete, delete, delete.But then, he breathes, and that’s - not what he does.Instead he.Well, he looks.Helooks, okay?Because there’s a voice in his head telling him, it’s different when he doesn’t seek it out. When it just –presentsitself, with no effort on his part, there’s nothing for him to feel guilty about.
Relationships: Nolan Patrick/Mark Scheifele
Comments: 211
Kudos: 687





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Oh look, it’s another installment of Rare Pairs No One Asked For, just in time for Christmas! And Hanukkah! And any other reason you might have to celebrate!
> 
> On my never-ending list of ideas I want to write someday, I have had the following:
> 
> • Mark Scheifele grappling with religious guilt as relates to his sexuality  
• AU non-hockey guy slides into the DMs of hockey guy and rocks his world  
• How is Nolan Patrick a beautiful rosy-cheeked angel and a greasy little minx all at once? 
> 
> And then at some point I realized Nolan is from Winnipeg and I was like OMG ALL THREE TOGETHER!
> 
> And **ambruises**, because she is never not encouraging no matter how crazy my ideas, was like YES DEFINITELY DO THAT IT DOESN’T SEEM RANDOM AND STRANGE AT ALL. And then she contributed a bunch of her time and effort to get me through the months it took to finish this, and was an enthusiastic sounding board through it all so once again, big thanks to her!
> 
> Major thanks also goes to **AD** for beta reading, schooling me on the finer points of Instagram, and willingness to go along with "MOST" of my ideas.
> 
> FYI All of Mark's Instagram posts referenced herein are real; see end notes for links.
> 
> This fic features roughly 10% of my typical allotment of curse words, because that’s the sacrifice you make when your POV character is Mark _freaking_ Scheifele.
> 
> Hope you all enjoy!

The first instinct Mark has is _delete, delete, delete._

But then, he breathes, and that’s - not what he does.

Instead he.

Well, he looks.

He _looks_, okay?

Because there’s a voice in his head telling him, it’s different when he doesn’t seek it out. When it just – _presents_ itself, with no effort on his part, there’s nothing for him to feel guilty about.

Nothing to feel guilty about, not like when he was 16 and googled _erection_, just to see one besides his own.

Not like when he sometimes performs innocuous and perfectly reasonable searches for things like _mens swim trunks slim fit_, or _best ab workout for men_ or _proper form male pullup_, and then immediately goes to take a shower afterward.

It’s not like Mark’s googling _big hard dicks_, he would just - he would _never_.

But.

If one shows up in his DMs in response to his latest sponsored post for RW&CO suits, unsolicited with a message request that says _Holy thirst trap, bud_, well. He’s not even pushing _accept_, he’s just – _remaining neutral_ \- so Mark didn’t do anything wrong, then, did he?

The guy who sent the picture obviously wanted him to see, if the way he’s gripping his dick and displaying it for the camera is any indication - so it’s not like Mark’s sneaking around or something, and he’s not hurting anyone.

Mark has been over and over this kind of thing in his head, but it’s still hard to shake a lifetime of conditioned responses. So he tries to give himself a break, tries to be a little patient with himself even though it’s really not his forte, and reminds himself one more time:

Nothing bad is going to happen if he just.

_Looks._

-

The next one just says _watching you play gets me so fucking hot_, a few weeks later, and this time The Guy, _NoPats98_, has got underwear on, but it’s tight, and he’s.

Well, he’s hard, again, and the tent it’s creating out of his very skimpy briefs is.

Significant.

Also significant is the fact that this shot shows a bit more of the guy’s body, his flat, broad belly and the line of dark hair on his lower abdomen.

His flawless, perfectly alabaster skin is creamy and pale in the dimly lit photo. It looks so – smooth, and. Soft.

It looks really, _really_ soft. So soft Mark can almost imagine how it might feel under his fingertips if he were to - .

Yeah.

Mark doesn’t delete that one, either.

-

Mark Scheifele does not swear. He does not curse the refs or his fellow players – even the ones who think it’s fun to try and goad him into it. He plays hard, and tough, but not dirty. He fought twice, in the OHL, and both times made his mother cry, so he doesn’t fight, either. He has been known to get a little chippy in defense of his teammates, but even still, he’s never dropped the gloves in the NHL and he doesn’t intend to.

He does not drink much, aside from the occasional glass of wine on an off day, and certainly never to excess. He does not break his diet, unless he plans for it ahead of time and makes sure there will be no ill effects on his play. He hydrates rigorously, sleeps 9 hours a day at a minimum, ingests no refined sugars if he can help it - just like Tom Brady recommends in his book.

Mark follows the TB12 Method only slightly less rigorously than the Bible, for which his roommate and other teammates chirp him mercilessly, but Mark will not be deterred.

He reads his actual Bible every morning, and takes his role as chapel leader for the team seriously. He prays every night for his family, his friends, his teammates.

For years, he also prayed endlessly, _desperately_, for God to shine light into his heart, to help him turn away from the dark, sinful thoughts and desires he knew were wrong and to turn instead toward the righteous path the Lord intended him to walk. He would pray for his future wife, for her family and loved ones and for their future children, for her to find her way to him soon, for her to be revealed to him so he could finally feel the way he’s _supposed_ to feel, instead of having all the wrong feelings about all the wrong people.

He finally stopped doing that, last year.

Now his prayers for himself are a lot shorter than they used to be: he asks for strength, wisdom, courage, and peace, and he leaves it at that. He’s found he has a lot less misery and more free time in his life, this way.

Because Mark Scheifele, avowed Good Christian Boy and well-known Hockey Nerd, spends his nights at home alone, or with his roommate, studying the Bible or studying hockey. He doesn’t hook up, he doesn’t watch porn, and he only uses his hand when the need becomes a distraction from his ability to effectively study the Bible and/or hockey. When he does it, he thinks of it as self-care, as perfunctory personal maintenance just like sleep and water and eating whole foods.

He has had one serious girlfriend in his life, and hasn’t been on a single date since they broke up three years ago. He has no reason to think he’ll go on one again soon, or really, ever.

He’s a 25 year old virgin, which used to be a point of pride, a testament to the strength of his conviction and his commitment to the teachings of his faith. Now he can admit, at least privately, that there’s no sacrifice in giving up a physical relationship that you don’t really want in the first place.

Now he can admit, privately, the truth of what he really wants, and of what it means. After years and years of running from it, of denying it even to himself, he finally found the courage to face it, and to start the process of accepting it. He doesn’t know yet how exactly to _deal_ with it, but he can only handle one major, foundation-rattling revelation at a time, here.

He’s working on it. That’s all he knows how to do.

-

_Just thinking about you_, is the caption on the next one.

It’s that same milky pale skin, splattered with pearly drops and streaks of jizz, a little pool of it in the dip between his abs, just above the belly button.

_It looks like a big hand_, is what Mark thinks, looking at the fingers wrapped around the flushed, spent dick. _He looks like a big guy._

Mark can admit to himself now, that’s just his type.

He googles _can you see if someone screenshots your DM on Instagram?_

He briefly considers his worst-case scenario – something Mark does a lot.

So: his phone is hacked, contents exposed to the world, what would be _most_ embarrassing?

In said worst-case scenario, it would definitely be better to have these messages buried in amongst all the other DM requests from people he doesn’t know, some of which are also pornographic – albeit in more culturally acceptable,_ heteronormative_ ways – than have a special secret folder hidden on his phone containing three extremely incriminating photos of a partially naked, fully aroused man.

So, he stops deleting all his other DM requests, just opens them but leaves them there, cluttering things up instead of periodically clearing them out like he’d always done before.

As a quasi-celebrity, at least regionally speaking, Mark gets enough unsolicited messages that it makes it harder to scroll back and find the message string from NoPats98, as time goes on, but Mark has never cared much about doing things the easy way.

He creates a notes file with the date of the most recent message, for reference going forward.

-

_You haven’t blocked me yet_, the next one says. _I wonder if that means you don’t even look at these, or if maybe it means you’ve looked and you like what you see?_

It comes along with a shot from NoPats98’s point of view, looking down his own body. He’s shirtless in blue basketball shorts, slung low around his hips, lying in a bed with his bare feet crossed at the ankles. His free hand is wrapped suggestively around his crotch, outlining the bulge there.

On the opposite wall at the foot of the bed is a non-descript, standard issue wood dresser, and over that a neatly framed poster of Mark on the wall, with a Jets pennant tucked into the corner of the frame.

Mark recognizes the pennant as the ones they gave away to fans during last year’s playoff run, and feels his stomach do something sickening and dangerous.

The Jets aren’t exactly a team with a widespread fanbase outside the metro area, or the Province at a maximum, but still, Mark has never stopped to consider before that NoPats98 might actually be local. That was probably stupid, in retrospect.

He’s considering it, now.

He hasn’t had the courage to try and open up the guy’s profile yet, hasn’t really wanted to know, to be honest.

He almost clicks on the username, lets his finger hover there for a minute, but in the end he just closes the app.

-

He also finds himself considering the meaning of NoPats98’s name, when the next message comes a few weeks later.

This one’s a quintessential mirror selfie, and the washroom backdrop looks.

Institutional.

It could be a gym – obviously NoPats98 works out – but it could also be a dormitory of some kind.

And Mark’s only 25; he wouldn’t necessarily feel any particular guilt over looking at a 21, 22 year-old uni student. At least no _additional_ guilt, over and above the same old guilt he’s still trying to puzzle his way through, the stuff related to the _guy_ part.

But an 18, 19 year-old kid? That’s a different story. Mark’s not sure exactly where the line is but he thinks it’s probably at _teenager_. If 98 is a reference to his birthyear, Mark is technically in the clear. 2018 is almost over, so – if this guy’s not 20 yet, he will be soon.

The NoPats thing is a whole other ball of wax that Mark isn’t even going to get into. Not liking the Patriots is practically sacrilege as far as Mark’s concerned, but then again, even Mark can admit it’s probably not fair to judge a person by their team affiliations.

Rooting interests aside, NoPats98 looks pretty filled out, nothing like the lanky string bean Mark was at 18. His biceps cut an impressive line into his arm where it’s raised, holding the phone in front of his face, and the harsh overhead light casts shadows along the musculature of his slightly angled torso. He’s obviously flexing, but it’s not a bad look.

Mark feels his face flush, just looking at it, just _thinking_ about it – about this guy, posing in the communal washroom, flexing like that – _for Mark_. To try and impress Mark, to try and - .

Turn him on, he guesses. Get him to respond in some way.

It’s a pretty picture, with all that smooth pale skin interrupted only by the white towel wrapped around his hips, but the thing that catches Mark’s eye more than anything is the particular curve of NoPats98’s butt, where it’s shown in partial profile due to the way his hips are angled toward the mirror. It makes Mark’s fingers itch, just imagining the way he could slide his hand up NoPats98’s thigh, up under that towel and right over his - .

Mark breathes deep, and types the date into his notes file.

_Just about to jump in the shower_, this one says. Mark thinks he might need to jump in the shower, as well.

-

_You’re the first guy I ever had a crush on_, and another pic of NoPats98’s big hand wrapped around his big erection.

_You’re the reason I knew I was gay, _and a shot of a laptop open on his belly, chest bare, with Mark on the screen looking sweaty and disheveled: the post-game interview from the previous night’s game. At the bottom of the image, NoPats98’s fingers are pinching at his tight little brown nipple.

_I was trying to figure out how many times I’ve jerked it to you_, and another pic of NoPats98 flat on his back, torso splattered with jizz, _and it’s gotta be in the thousands by now_.

_I’ve been working on my back, what do you think?_ And a pic from behind, shirtless in the washroom mirror, flexing in that same pair of baggy basketball shorts Mark has become embarrassingly familiar with.

_Legs and glutes, too. Not bad, right?_ Comes the same day, just a few minutes after the first one, and in this one he’s stripped off the basketball shorts and he’s just wearing compression shorts. They’re light grey, and show a dark line of sweat down the center of his butt, which he’s obviously flexing, and he’s got one leg turned out to the camera with the cut of his quad clearly visible across his thigh, and - .

Mark has to look away, has to take a deep breath and gather himself.

-

Mark likes to think he’s past the futility and foolishness of wasting his limited time and energy on trying to move mountains. He’s old enough now, mature enough in both his life and his faith to accept that some things just _are_, like the fact of wanting the things he wants, or being turned on by the things that turn him on.

That doesn’t mean the things he’s believed since before he was old enough to even understand what they meant just disappeared from his brain overnight, though, and it also doesn’t mean that lust isn’t still a sin he should work to avoid.

It took a long time, _years_ really, of self-flagellation and fighting it tooth and nail, years of guilt and shame and wasted emotional and mental energy, but he finally realized, there’s nothing he can do to change this part of himself, or to stop it. If there was _anything_, some way to keep those types of thoughts from coming unbidden into his mind, to keep his eyes from noticing the things they notice before Mark can stop them, then surely during the full decade of hell he went through from ages 14 to 24,_ surely_ somewhere in the countless hours of prayer and pleading and begging and bargaining with God, he would have found it.

The unrelenting negative inner monologue was getting old, getting tiresome and running out of new and inventive ways to tell Mark what a filthy sinner he was. By the end it was losing steam, frankly; after being so constant and unceasing for so many years, it had turned itself into background noise, unable to really pierce through and hurt him like it used to. And at the same time, Mark was getting older, experiencing life, learning lessons about himself and the world around him.

Like, that it wasn’t fair of him to expect a woman to change him into the man he wished he could be. The relationship he had tried so diligently to foster wasn’t fair to his ex-girlfriend for a lot of reasons, not least of which was _feeling_ her love him in a way he was only pretending to love her in return.

(It still makes him queasy when he thinks about it, about how disrespectful that was to her, how _cruel_, really, when you get right down to it, even if that’s not how he intended it at the time.)

And like, how the Bible says man is not meant to live alone, and then it says he’s also not meant to love other men in the way men should love women, but it says nothing about what men who _can’t_ love women – not _that way_ \- should do about the whole living alone thing.

Mark knows the Bible is full of apparent contradictions and that as a believer in the Five Solae it’s his responsibility to faithfully seek Christ’s intention for him and his life, and to live in accordance with the truest and most sincere understanding of that intention that he can reach.

He has a long way to go, to understanding what he’s supposed to do, here, but he knows some things for sure.

He knows the kind of emotional dishonesty he felt trapped by, in his relationship with his girlfriend, is definitely not what God wants for him.

And he knows that who he’s attracted to is built into him, is as foundational a part of his nature as his love for his family and for hockey and for God himself. He knows that it doesn’t come from Satan acting on him, or from some cultural influence or some malfunctioning, aberrant sexual wiring – no matter what many theologians and Christian scholars would have him believe. They haven’t _felt it_, like Mark feels it, way down in their bones, in their _souls, _what it is to know he’s been_ made this way, _by God. They can’t possibly understand it, and he doesn’t begrudge them that.

Because he also knows man doesn’t – _can’t_ \- understand the meaning and nuance of all the ways God moves. On that point, at least, the Bible is crystal clear.

-

Mark posts the clip of himself winking with his Mo-vember ‘stache because he thinks it’s funny. But also, maybe, because he thinks - .

Okay, so he doesn’t do a ton on social media, but he sees the guys who do, the way they interact with their fans, and he thinks.

He just thinks his fans might appreciate it, is all.

He’s not wrong, judging by the response the post gets, but he still feels anxious, somehow, like he did something wrong by posting it.

It’s not until he sees the new message request waiting in his DMs and feels the hit of adrenaline it produces that he realizes with a sinking feeling, _oh_. This is why he did it, wasn’t it? Because he was hoping for this.

_I wasn’t really feelin the stache at first, but the wink? You’re killing me, man._

The picture is of NoPats98 on his bed again, rubbing at his crotch over his sweats, socked feet crossed at the ankle and Mark’s poster still on the wall at the foot of the bed.

He’s wearing a hoodie this time, and Mark admonishes himself for being disappointed at the lack of skin.

It’s December in Winnipeg, after all.

-

_I never REALLY thought you’d be into dudes_.

It’s only a few days later, quicker turn around time than NoPats98 usually has between messages, and there’s no picture this time, just text.

_But I keep expecting you to block me and you haven’t yet, so now I guess I’m wondering why. It’s kinda making me crazy, actually, and I have finals coming up so if you’re just trying to be nice or something, like show how tolerant you are or whatever, you don’t have to, okay? If you’d just block me, then at least I’d know._

Mark thinks he probably should, but he doesn’t.

-

Mark finishes his morning devotional reading, but then lounges around in bed, fiddling with his phone, trying to get it together to go shower and finish packing for his trip home for Christmas.

He scrolls through his DM requests from the last 24 hours or so, opening everything and deleting nothing as is his custom these days.

There’s been nothing new from NoPats98 since he basically dared Mark to block him.

It’s been more than two weeks, longer than usual, and Mark hates that he knows that, but he’s not going to pretend he doesn’t know it.

He’s also not going to pretend he’s above posting something on Insta just to try and get a response, considering he’s already done it once. A _thirst trap_, NoPats98 called it in his very first message, back when Mark had no reason to think about such things.

Mark remembers precisely _because_ he’d had no idea what that meant, and had to google it.

So, okay, fine – if he’s going to do it, he might as well go ahead and do it.

He chooses something innocuous and throws it up on Insta, rolling his eyes at himself as he does. It’s just a picture of himself grinning on the ice, nothing special, but he thought he looked okay.

Then he gets up and forces himself to finish packing, at least, before he’ll allow himself to look at his phone again. Exactly as he hoped, there’s a new DM waiting.

_Nice to wake up to that smile, but how about some personal pics?_

_You never post candids, like you at home and stuff. Look at me over here, steady creating original content for your enjoyment _😉 _Give the people what they want, man!_

The message has a video attached, only 8 seconds long.

Mark knows he’s got the house to himself, Andrew left last night to go home for Christmas, but Mark still closes the door to his room before he watches it.

It’s focused on NoPats98’s lap, so nothing else is visible. The waistband of his sweats is pulled down under his balls, cradling his erection. He’s holding his free hand out, and in his palm is a little puddle of something clear and viscous, obviously lube.

_My skin gets so dry in the winter, y’know_? NoPats98 says, then he rubs his fingers against his palm once or twice to spread the lube around, and wraps his hand around his dick with a moan. He slides his slick fist up and down the shaft once, then the video cuts out.

The voice is deep and rumbling, almost a mumble, and the moan is almost like a sigh, like relief.

Mark watches it again, then again. He puts the phone down, leaves it on his bedside table, and goes to make his breakfast.

After he eats he does some pushups to try and take the edge off, like he doesn’t already know that’s not gonna work.

He goes back and watches it again, then brushes his teeth and shaves. He watches it a few more times, and thinks about how he’s about to spend 4 days in a house full of his family, and this might be his last chance.

He sighs, frustrated at his own weakness, but he still takes the phone to the bathroom with him when he goes to shower.

-

Mark spends an inordinate amount of time thinking about that _voice_.

On the ride to the airport, on the plane, on the ride from the airport to his parents’ house. He gets distracted for a while with family dinner, with playing cards and board games and catching up, but by the time he’s in his room and alone for the night, it’s on his mind again. He won’t allow himself to watch the video again, not here in his childhood bedroom with his brother and sister-in-law and sister and _parents_ right down the hall.

But he thinks about it.

He thinks about it _so much_.

Christmas Eve is busy, lots of family and shopping and friends and neighbors stopping by to say hi or drop off gifts or baked goods, but Mark’s got one thing running through his mind: _You never post candids, like you at home and stuff._

He tells himself he’d post a Merry Christmas message tomorrow anyway, probably, so what if it includes a photo? He checks to make sure, and yeah, he posted last year with a photo, so. Not a pic of himself, but still -. There’s nothing weird, nothing off about the idea. 

He doesn’t even have to do anything special as it turns out, he just has to wait. Once gifts are unwrapped and before dinner is served his mom, predictably, makes them all gather around in front of the tree for a family photo. His cousin takes the pic with his sister’s phone, and Mark knows it’s only a matter of time before she posts it on social media. Then all he has to do is snag it and use it for his own post.

After a bunch of pointless attempts to maybe say something clever, he captions it _Merry Christmas_ and leaves it at that.

Then he puts his phone in his pocket, and forces himself to leave it there until bedtime.

Only once he’s in his room, door closed, does he open up Instagram.

The way his stomach flips when he sees a message from NoPats98 makes him worry a little for his own sanity. Not for the first time – in fact, for about the 5,829th time – since he got that first message, Mark thinks maybe the best, the _wisest_ course of action would just be to finally, finally decline the request, to delete the whole string and block the sender and cut this whole episode out of his life.

But that’s his old way of thinking, his _scared _way of thinking. And Mark isn’t doing that anymore, letting guilt and fear be the basis for his decisions and actions.

At least, he’s trying really hard not to.

Of course, he’s also trying hard not to base his decisions and actions on lust, so. He’s walking a fine line, here.

He hesitates with his thumb over his screen for longer than is in any way reasonable, but it’s a stupid mind game he’s playing with himself. He already knows – _has_ known - exactly what he’s going to do, so he might as well go ahead and do it.

He thumbs open the message.

_This is probably stupid, but oh well. You posted a candid shot of you at home, just like I asked for, and I know it wasn’t actually because of me, but still. It kinda made my Christmas anyway, because otherwise it sucked. _

_I know I probably seem super open with the gay thing, considering the stuff I’ve been sending you, but actually I’m not out at all, and people in my family make a lot of shitty jokes and stuff and I just let them because I’m too scared to say anything. Kinda takes the fun out of family time, right? _

_So anyway I just wanted to say, in case you actually do see these, thanks for being cool about it and not blocking me or freaking out at me or anything. You really are my favorite player and I’ll stop being an asshole and sending dick pics and shit, now._

_Merry Christmas. _

The guy in the photo is wearing an ugly Christmas sweater, and holding a dog. His face is young, but not _that_ young, Mark doesn’t think, just wide-eyed and earnest and kind of - .

Devastating, actually.

It’s that same flawless white skin as the rest of his body, but his cheeks are blotched with bright pink in a way Mark can’t help but find adorable. The eyes are intensely blue, with long lashes. Full pink lips, a straight nose, sharp jawline stubbled with dark whiskers, and long-ish shaggy hair curling out from under the bottom of a backward snap-back with a Jets logo stitched into the cap.

He looks a lot like every teammate Mark ever had a crush on but pretended not to.

He’s not smiling, just looking intent, and the whole effect makes Mark’s heart feel constricted in a way that’s totally different from the way it thuds at the sight of one of his other, more graphic photos. It also makes him feel _beholden_, in some way. Like this guy has shared something really _private_, has put himself out there in a whole new way by showing his face, and now Mark feels almost guilty for leaving him out on that limb all alone, feels almost like he owes him something in return.

It’s so crazy, the idea that sending nude photos and jerk-off videos is somehow less intimate than a simple photo of a face, but in the currency of internet strangers, it definitely is.

Mark considers his options for a long, long time.

He starts about 13 different responses in his head, but can’t bring himself to start typing any of them.

He considers his options, some more, and does his worst-case scenario drill.

Worst-case scenario would be Mark responds and then the guy makes the message string public, somehow. Definitely, there’d be no good way to explain why he’s replying to a guy who’s been sending him pornographic content for months now. Replying seems stupid, ridiculous, like a truly terrible idea.

But he wants to. God, he really _wants_ to.

He actually says a prayer, asks God for the same things he always does these days: Wisdom to know the right thing to do, courage to do it even if it’s scary, strength to stand by his actions even if it’s hard, and peace in knowing he made the best choice he could under the circumstances.

Then he does something he’s only heard about, but never imagined he’d ever have occasion to do.

He creates a fake Instagram account.

In a fit of delirium, he calls himself GoPats93, and makes the Jets logo his icon.

He sends a direct message to NoPats98, _I was sorry to hear about your Christmas. That sucks, man._

Then puts his phone under his pillow for – reasons that make him feel less exposed, somehow – and leaves the room.

He goes downstairs to get a bottle of water, and sits at the kitchen island for a while, until his hands stop shaking.

He’s not sure how he got here, and he’s not sure it’s where he should be. He can’t seem to tell what’s right and wrong anymore, like True North isn’t where he left it. Like all he can think about is that face, about a guy sitting at his family’s table for Christmas and listening to them make unintentionally hurtful remarks with a smile on his face, about a guy he maybe has more in common with than he’d ever imagined. A guy who probably won’t give a second though to some random person messaging him, and will immediately delete the request without even looking at it.

Except, if Mark really believed that, he wouldn’t be so nervous right now. Something deep in his gut, an instinct he can’t quite identify, is telling him NoPats98 will know exactly who he is.

He practices his yoga breathing for a few minutes, then he goes back upstairs.

GoPats93 has a new DM.

_I don’t know what to think right now. Are you for real?_

Mark takes a deep breath and types,

_I’m not sure how to answer that? Yes, I’m for real._

The response is almost instant:

_If you’re really you, tell me something only you would know._

Mark isn’t trying to be difficult, but:

_If it’s something only I know, then you wouldn’t know it?_

NoPats98 responds with:

_ Come on, I’m freaking out. You know what I mean – something you know about me from my messages._

Again, Mark is considering his worst-case scenario. He doesn’t want to reference himself in any way that could be potentially incriminating, no _you have a poster of me in your room_, or _you say I’m your favorite player_.

He shouldn’t reference anything overtly sexual, for many reasons, including worst-case, public-exposure ones, as well as general decency ones.

_You have excellent taste in guys_, he thinks, but it feels too – something. Self-serving, or whatever.

So he breathes deep and types,

_Your skin gets dry in the winter._

He’s blushing before he even hits send, heart pounding. Oh God, oh God, _oh God._

There’s a lag of about 10 minutes during which Mark thinks he might die, and considers removing all social media, including twitter, facebook, snapchat and BOTH FREAKING INSTAGRAM ACCOUNTS from his phone.

Then throwing his phone in the toilet for good measure.

Instead he just lies perfectly still on his bed with a pillow over his face, and waits.

His heart almost stops, when he finally sees the notification that he has a new message. It goes pretty fast, from there.

NoPats98: _Holy shit holy shit were you really looking at my pics this whole time_

GoPats93: _I really was_

NoPats 98: _Oh god I’m so sorry. Holy shit I don’t know why I did that, I’m so sorry_

GoPats93: _Never got that from a guy before. I was surprised. But not sorry._

NoPats98: _SHUT UP RU FUCKING WITH ME_

GoPats93: _why would I do that?_

NoPats98: _omg, sorry, this is a lot. I don’t know if I should be embarrassed or not?_

GoPats93: _Like I said, I’m not sorry, so you def shouldn’t be_

NoPats98: _Does that mean you want to see more?_

Mark has to pause there and take a deep breath. Of course he wants to see more, he wants to see everything, all of it. Anything NoPats98 is willing to share, Mark wants to see it.

But that doesn’t make it right, or good, or wise.

So he answers as honestly as he can.

GoPats93: _That’s a tough question. Everything I’ve seen so far has definitely made me want to see more. But I didn’t really come here for that, I promise. Maybe we could just chat a little bit?_

NoPats98: 😊_ Cool. We can definitely do that._

-

NoPats98 has a real name now – it’s Nolan Patrick, so as it turns out he doesn’t give a crap about the Patriots one way or another. But he knows basically everything that’s publicly available to know about Mark, so he knows that Mark very much gives a crap about the Patriots. He also knows Mark’s birthday, and he’s a smart guy, and he put two and two together immediately when he saw GoPats93 show up with that specific message, after what he’d sent to mscheif earlier – just like Mark had a feeling he would.

He turned 20 in September and he was born and raised in Winnipeg. People think he’s Irish because of his pale skin and his last name, but in fact “Patrick” is an anglicized version of the original Ukranian, and his mom’s side is Hungarian. He loves hunting and fishing and he’s just started picking up golf. He’s in his 3rd year at Uni studying Kinesiology and Applied Health, and has a part time job as a lifeguard at the University’s fitness center. He asks some knowledgeable follow-up questions, like he’s actually interested, when Mark talks about his diet and exercise regimens. Mark was maybe a little concerned that there’d be some element of hero worship that would put them on unequal footing, but those concerns are laid to rest after Nolan engages him in a spirited debate about some of the less-well-accepted claims of the TB12 Method, and sends him links to some contradictory scientific findings. Mark’s not about to change what’s working for him, of course, but he likes the fight he sees in Nolan, the way he’s apparently unafraid to challenge or argue with Mark.

He comes from a big hockey family, with a dad and two uncles that all played in the League, but says he only ever wanted to play for fun, that he was never willing to do what it took to really live up to his potential, never wanted to move away from home and his family and friends just to chase a dream that he just didn’t care that much about. But he loves the game, and he loves the Winnipeg Jets. He remembers vividly the day Mark was drafted and how it meant they had a team in Winnipeg again, meant he had a hometown team for the first time in his life. He swears he immediately switched his childhood allegiance from his previous favorites - hometown hero Jonathan Toews and the Blackhawks - to the Jets, and never looked back. Mark has a hard time believing anyone jumped off the Hawks bandwagon right in the middle of their run of three cups in six years, and Nolan begrudgingly admits that okay, fine, he still rooted for the ‘hawks, but _not_ when they played the Jets.

He says his family isn’t as religious as Mark’s, but they’re a lot more – macho, for lack of a better word. All the pictures on his Instagram are of him and his father and uncles and cousins in the woods or on a boat, holding guns and fishing rods, camping and attending sporting events, or otherwise engaged in equally stereotypically masculine endeavors. As such he has a lot of the same worries and concerns about coming out as Mark does, albeit for somewhat different reasons, on a somewhat different scale.

And also.

He’s known he was gay since he was 15, since Mark was a rookie in the running for the Calder, and Nolan got his first Mark Scheifele poster and realized he looked at it too much, for all the wrong reasons.

But he’s never come out to a living soul except _Mark freaking Scheifele_.

The same Mark Scheifele that has spent the last three days messaging with him pretty much non-stop without either of them ever acknowledging in so many words that he is, in fact, Mark Scheifele.

The same Mark Scheifele who is in so, _so_ much trouble.

-

January passes, and Mark talks to Nolan a lot, and thinks about Nolan even more. They keep it up right through the All-Star break, right into February.

Nolan sends him sleepy, rumpled good morning selfies, still lying against his navy sheets that make his eyes shine bright blue. Mark responds with photos of his breakfast, which are always the same because his breakfast is always the same, and which are uniformly met with Nolan’s good-natured ridicule and responses along the lines of _yeah, but u know ur jealous,_ accompanied by a pic of whatever bacon-laden, syrup drenched breakfast Nolan’s having that morning.

They exchange exhaustive information about their daily workouts, comparing details and sharing tips and notes, but Nolan’s are often accompanied by flushed-face, sweaty post-workout selfies, flexing in the washroom mirror. Mark’s, obviously, are not.

When the new school term starts, Nolan talks about his classes and his coursework, stuff with complicated-sounding names like Biomechanical Analysis and Neuromuscular Learning that make Nolan seem intimidatingly smart to a guy like Mark, who could barely be bothered to finish high school in between hockey games. When Mark says so, Nolan sends surreptitiously-taken photos of the classmates and professors he talks about most – the Adaptive Motor Control prof who wears the weird plyometric shoes every day, the girl in his Anatomy class who eats precisely four boiled eggs at her desk every day – to assure him these are not people he should be intimidated by.

Mark talks in vagaries about his own job and his co-workers, without ever using any specifics or naming them, at all.

He talks about his _work trip_ to California, and tells Nolan how cool it is to actually get to stay a few days in one place, unlike his usual work travel schedule, and to get to hang out with people he doesn’t get to see a lot, to have a nice relaxing time without the regular stress of work.

He sends a picture of the ocean from the 16th green of the golf course he plays one morning, of the cloudless, bright blue sky with the sun glittering off the water, captioned _not bad for January._

Nolan sends back a picture of himself wrapped up like a mummy, standing next to a waist-high snowbank in front of the library, with the caption _thanks for rubbing it in, chief_. Then he sends a picture of himself as a kid, probably only 7 or 8 but still so obviously _Nolan_ with those little pink cheeks, standing next to a man dressed as Mr. Incredible, clearly at a theme park, captioned: _Last time I escaped Winterpeg._

The day Mark gets back from the All-Star break, Nolan sends him a link to the video of Lowsy and Rusty’s “kiss” before Mark’s even seen it, along with a string of side-eye emoji.

Mark sends back: _They’re not doing much to dispel those dating rumors_, to which Nolan replies: _Are we sure they’re rumors? Because_ 🔥 🔥 🔥 🔥 🔥.

And it goes on like that, getting to know each other, bantering and chirping and learning each other a little at a time. It’s _mostly_ just that, but occasionally, Nolan will send an unbearably hot shower video, just his hands running over the slick, wet skin of his shoulder or chest or stomach, or water rolling down through his hair, over the planes of his back. But he doesn’t send any more dick pics, nothing overtly explicit. Not that Mark is complaining either way.

He does ask if Mark still has all the stuff he sent before, and Mark tells the truth.

He asks if Mark still looks at them, and Mark tells the truth.

He asks if Mark jerks off to them, and Mark breathes deep and grits his teeth and forces himself to tell the truth.

_I’m sorry, is that too weird now that we talk?_ he sends right after. _I’ll stop if you want me to._

_No, I’m glad, I like it_, Nolan sends back, along with about 1000 blushy-face emoji.

Mark is pretty sure by now that the blushy face is a load of BS, because despite his perpetually-pink cheeks, Nolan doesn’t seem to actually _get_ embarrassed, not really, at least not easily. All his coy poses and bashful gazes up through his eyelashes in his photos notwithstanding.

Mark knows Nolan likes making him flustered and tongue tied and awkward – he says it’s _cute._

Nolan also likes knowing Mark is looking at him, and how much Mark likes looking at him. Which is why he sends the stuff he sends and asks the questions he asks, to begin with.

Mark can’t really bring himself to mind.

Nolan asked one time for a picture, quick to say no face, just body. 

_There’s nothing online_, he said, _you’re always covered up_. _It’s really not fair, considering_.

It took Mark two hours of standing in front of a nondescript white door, making sure there were no identifying items in the background or anywhere on his person, flexing and posing in his underwear and feeling like a complete idiot, before he finally settled an acceptable shot.

_Now you’re not the only one with original content to jerk off to_, Nolan replies, because he’s a little turd.

15 minutes later he sends an eggplant with a volcano, and Mark doesn’t need google for that one.

-

The Jets didn’t lose a single game at home in January. Mark is riding high after the All-Star break, playing well, and they blow out the Ducks to kick off February and keep their home streak alive for 2019.

Two days later they lose to San Jose in an OT heartbreaker then head out for a three game roadie with the bad taste still in their mouths. They come home from the road trip home 1-2, still a little unsettled, a little out of sorts.

Mark is looking forward to the first game back on home ice, ready to start a new streak with the Rangers in town. He’s just getting home from morning skate, heating up his lunch when he gets the notification.

_I’m coming to the game tonight, I just wanted to give you a heads up. _

_I know this is kinda awkward but I actually go to a handful of games every year so I swear this is not like, me trying to creep on you. Me and my boys always get there early so I’ll probably be down at the glass for warm-ups. I didn’t want you to see me and think I’m stalking you or anything._

_Anyway, just so you know._

It comes with a picture of Nolan shrugging, all aw-shucks and sorry-not-sorry. He’s got his top teeth dug into his plump bottom lip, and he’s just. Overwhelmingly attractive, as always.

Mark can’t really wrap his mind around the idea of possibly seeing Nolan, in the flesh, even with a wall of glass between them.

Suddenly he’s buzzing with nervous energy, too anxious to get down all of his lunch, too amped up to sleep even though he forces himself to lie down in the dark for the same two hours that he always does, pre-game. By the time they’re leaving for the arena, Copper is giving him some heavy side eye, like he’s trying to figure out what’s up, but he doesn’t pry because he’s a good bro that way. Mark forces his fingers to be still on the steering wheel, forces his toes and heels and knees to all remain still and stationary for the duration of the drive, but it’s not easy. 

He keeps looking at the clock. Warm-ups start in an hour and a half.

When he finally hits the ice, his strategy is to just keep his head down, focus, go through his routine just like any other game. Nolan might not even be here. His friends might be running late, or maybe they decided to stop for dinner first, or go straight to their seats, or - .

_Scheeeeeeiiiiiiiifsss_ someone yells, and Mark ignores it, like he always does. But then Wheels elbows him, points out a little boy with his mom down at the glass.

He has a sign that says HEY MARK! U R MY FAVE PLAYER AND IT’S MY B-DAY!

Mark smiles and skates over, waves through the glass, and flips a puck up and over. The kid almost catches it, but fumbles it, and Mark can hear his shriek as he scrambles to the ground, trying to find it.

A few people down the row, a guy pops up with the puck in his hand, holds it out to the kid with a smile.

It’s Nolan, of course. Mark can feel it when their eyes meet, like an electric shock. It’s like he just grew an inch, like an invisible cord inside his spine was suddenly drawn up tight like a new bowstring.

The little boy grabs the puck from Nolan’s hand and waves it at Mark, smiling from ear to ear and yelling _thank you, thank you_! Mark vaguely registers the kid’s mom waving too, mouthing her thanks.

Mark feels like he’s on autopilot, waving at the kid again, then looking back to Nolan, giving him a nod before he skates away.

He doesn’t look over again, but that electric feeling stays with him, like it’s thrumming in his veins, powering him from the inside out. 

He has two goals and an assist, and the Jets win 4-3.

-

_I know it’s dumb_, Nolan’s message says later that night, _it’s just sometimes I convince myself I must be missing something, because it doesn’t make any sense that this is really real, so. Just like, to check or whatever. Did you see me tonight?_

_Of course I saw you_, Mark responds right away. _You’re kinda hard to miss._

_Right,_ Nolan says, with an eyeroll emoji, _but can you like tell me what happened? Like, describe the situation? Just so I know it was really you._

_Sure,_ Mark says. _You handed a puck back to a kid who dropped it. I watched you do it. I looked right at you, and nodded._

_Holy shit,_ is the reply. _Like, hooooooly shiiiiiit dude. It’s not that I didn’t believe it before, it’s just. Shit. You’re really you._

_I really am, _Mark confirms, still thrumming with that same electric energy_. And I worked my butt off tonight trying to impress you. Did it work?_

It takes a while for Nolan to respond, but when he does, the wait is worth it.

It’s a video, Nolan in the clothes he had on at the game, a white hoodie and Jets-branded knit hat pulled down over his ears, sitting up against his headboard.

“So, it definitely worked,” he says, with this reluctant little grin he gets, which Mark has already learned to think of as one of Nolan’s default expressions. It’s the most understated smile Mark’s ever seen, with a grumpy tilt to his brows and a stubborn set to his jaw that makes it clear he’s doing all he can to keep the side of his mouth from turning up.

It makes Mark’s stomach swoop and clench, every time.

His cheeks are so pink, and so are his lips, and his voice is so deep it’s just a barely-there rumble, almost hard to understand.

Mark wants to touch that perfect skin, kiss those perfect lips, wants it like he’s never wanted anything or anyone before.

“You looked so good,” video-Nolan goes on, and his tongue snakes out to wet his lips, fleeting and tantalizing. “You _are_ so good, I just. God, I really.”

He sighs a little, and his eyes flutter closed. The video stays on his face, teeth digging into his bottom lip, but it’s clear he’s moving, shoulder and arm angled differently now. Mark can just imagine where that hand is, by the look on his face, and the longing he feels is like a physical pain in his chest.

“I just, I think about you all the time. Too much, maybe. But I don’t wanna stop. I don’t think I _can_ stop.”

He sighs again, and his mouth stays open slightly. His eyes flutter open, dark blue and heavy-lidded and imploring, and the video ends.

Mark is sitting on his bed, still in his game day suit. Probably the prudent thing to do would be to change, maybe some non-descript sweats and plain white socks; if this ever gets out, probably someone could match this suit, the tie and the socks, to footage from tonight of him arriving, or leaving, and some internet sleuth could create a paper trail to prove it’s him. It could happen, if - worst-case scenario - Nolan is a liar on a prolonged mission to gain his trust then out him.

It’s just.

Mark doesn’t actually _believe_ that. It wouldn’t even make _sense_.

And anyway, he feels too - something. Too brave or stupid or turned on or actually _alive_, for once in his life, to give in to fear, right now.

Right now he just wants to show Nolan he’s not alone, that Mark feels it too, whatever _it_ is.

Just once, he wants to forget about worst-case scenario avoidance protocols, and just do the thing he _feels like doing._

So he yanks open his suit pants, rucks his dress shirt up and out of the way, and wraps his hand over the fly of his black boxer briefs.

The video shows his rumpled white shirt, a swath of his hairy belly, his hand kneading at his crotch, groping his very obvious erection in between the open fly of his blue suit pants. His blue and purple striped socks are visible against the grey carpet of his bedroom floor.

“I promise, it’s not just you,” his voice says, and it sounds strained, constricted almost like there’s a hand around his throat. “I can’t stop thinking about you either.”

-

Mark calls his money manager.

He’s been reading about the stability of the real estate market in Winnipeg, how it’s shown extremely steady growth for years now, and how that’s a sign of long-term health and offers a great environment for real estate investing.

Cheryl agrees, real estate is generally a good investment, and in Winnipeg it’s almost a sure bet, much less volatile than if he wanted to do something back in Ontario. She asks if she should look into some options, maybe talk to some corporate investment firms, and suggests they set up a meeting to talk about it further in the summer when he’s home.

“That sounds great,” Mark says, but then throws in, “In the meantime, I thought maybe I’d start with a something simple – residential. A condo right by the arena could come in handy, I think. Give myself a crash pad right across the street from work if I want it, use it for out of town guests, when my buddies come to town and stuff. But maybe also put it on Airbnb or something, rent it out when I’m on the road, or like on holidays, in the summers when I’m not in town? I think it would probably pay for itself that way.”

“Ah,” she says, “with residential real estate the risk is even lower. Definitely no reason not to move ahead with that, if it’s something you want to try. You liked the agent who helped you buy your house, didn’t you? If not I’m happy to get some recommendations and send them over.”

“No, no, Sal was great,” he assures her. “I’ve still got his info – I’ll give him a call. Just wanted to run it by you first.”

That’s all it takes, really.

Mark has already pin-pointed the building he wants, and the set-up he needs. He views the floorplans on the building’s website, looks at photos of the available listings online to choose his favorites. He tells Sal he’d like to see the 2-1 and the 2-2 layouts, but he already knows which one he’s going to buy before he ever steps foot inside the lobby. He meets Sal one day after practice, just to take a live look and confirm what he already knows, and he’s on his way home 30 minutes later, already having put in a full-price offer. The seller accepts the same day, and suddenly he’s 30 days away from owning a 2 bed, 2 bath condo in the new Glasshouse building, right across the street from the Arena.

Everything has moved as quickly and seamlessly as it possibly can, but it still feels like he’s running out of time. The end of the season is coming on fast, then the crush of the playoffs will start, and he doesn’t know exactly when or how he’s going to get the time or the courage to do - .

The thing he wants desperately to do.

Because technically, everything he’s said to Cheryl and to Sal, to his folks and his siblings and to Copper, to his other teammates as he’s gone through this process has been true. It is a good idea, for all the reasons he’s stated. No one has even raised an eyebrow, and across the board everyone has agreed it makes sense and accepted it without so much as a single objection raised.

Definitely, no one has accused him of anything crazy, like rushing out to spend _three hundred thousand dollars_ just to have a safe, controlled-access, totally private space where he can, maybe, _possibly_, one day get up the nerve to ask his online crush to meet him in person, away from the prying eyes of the overly-interested Winnipeg public.

Mark is done playing games with himself, though – and he’s well aware, that is in fact _exactly_ what he’s doing.

-

Mark and Nolan are in touch pretty much constantly. They have an ongoing chat that only pauses when Nolan’s in class or Mark’s on the ice, either for morning skate or an actual game. Otherwise there’s almost no time that’s off limits.

It doesn’t take long for them to know each other’s schedules and keep up with each other’s comings and goings. Mark is startled to find how quickly it starts to feel just like it did when he had a girlfriend.

Only in this case – time to call a spade a spade – it would, hypothetically, be a boyfriend. Just the thought of it sends a terrifying thrill up Mark’s spine.

It’s the consistent checking in, the continually unfolding, free-flowing conversation that starts up in the morning and goes on and off until bedtime every night. It creates this illusion that they’re already present in each other’s space, like they’re together all day every day. It gives them this intimate understanding of the rhythms of each other’s lives, the same kind you get from spending a lot of time with someone. It’s surprising, and scary, and exhilarating how close Mark feels to Nolan, and how relatively quickly it happens.

It’s crazy, to think about feeling that way when they’ve never even _met_.

At the same time, the sense of freedom that comes from not _actually_ knowing or seeing each other in person fosters a boldness, a kind of courage, at least for Mark, that he’s not sure he’d be able to manage if Nolan was right in front of him. He’s more free with his feelings, more forthcoming about his truest and deepest wishes and desires and fears. There are things he’s never given voice to outside his own head, that he somehow finds himself saying to Nolan.

Or, technically, _typing_ to Nolan.

Like how much he doesn’t want to be alone for his whole life, but he can’t imagine how his family would ever really integrate a male partner, and he’s afraid someday he’ll have to choose one or the other because he’ll never be able to have both. Or like still wanting to get married and have kids, and not being sure how he’d even go about that now, not knowing if it’s possible anymore. Or like not being sure how a relationship between two men even _works_, how the rules are different, or how they’re the same, as a relationship with a woman.

Like being so terrified of exposure for so many reasons and from so many directions that it’s almost paralyzing, that he doesn’t know sometimes how he could ever move forward even if he wanted to.

_I know I’m not in the exact same shoes_, Nolan says, _but I can imagine, you know? It’s a lot just being a student and thinking about all that same stuff. For you it must be even scarier._

They also talk hockey.

Okay, they talk _a lot_ of hockey.

Nolan listens, and understands, and shares so many of Mark’s same fears, and also same hopes, and also same thoughts on what it’s going to take to make a deep run in the playoffs this year, and - . It all just makes the wanting him even _worse_.

Honestly, sometimes Mark wishes Nolan was a little – _less_.

Less beautiful, or brave, or smart, or funny, or understanding, or charming, or patient, or sexy, or hockey obsessed. Just a _little_ less like everything Mark wants, less like something that feels worth re-arranging his whole life for, worth taking the ultimate risk for.

Mark never really bargained for having to re-arrange his whole life, but he’s kinda doing it, and he kinda doesn’t even mind.

And as for the ultimate risk, well. He bought a freaking condo, so. Just because he hasn’t taken that final leap yet, doesn’t mean he’s not going to.

Mark has thus far resisted the urge to send Nolan any truly incriminating content, but he’s talked himself into the idea that really, that only technically excludes his face, and his dick. So Nolan makes requests, _show me your hands_ and _let’s see those abs_ and _upper back, please,_ and Mark just – gives the man what he asks for.

Of course, Nolan never asks for anything he knows Mark doesn’t want to give. He’s got a perfect instinct when it comes to that – Mark’s never had to explain anything to him. It’s uncanny, actually, how adept Nolan is at things like never referring to Mark by name in their chats, never saying _your_ game, but rather _the_ game. Never mentioning specifics about anything Mark does on the ice, or publicly for that matter.

Never asking him to show his face in a photo or video, and never, ever even _hinting_ at broaching the idea of meeting in person.

Mark isn’t sure if all that makes Nolan the most understanding, accommodating, patient person on earth, or just the cleverest and most manipulative, but either way, it’s working.

Because whatever his methods, if his end goal is to make Mark feel safe, to give Mark the space and time he needs to get comfortable with the idea of cracking open the closet door just far enough to drag Nolan inside with him, to consider the idea that maybe that way they could at least be alone _together_, then Mark’s got to hand it to the guy – it’s _definitely_ working.

-

Mark’s mom and sister and girlfriend helped him decorate his house, so he doesn’t know any designer-type-people. He also doesn’t have time to waste, here, so he finds someone online, contracts with her to take charge of the condo project, and explains that he’s in a time crunch to have the place ready in time for visitors to stay during the play offs, so time is of the essence.

He closes on an off day, the last week of March, and meets Melissa, his designer, there with the keys the same day. He assures her that he’s not picky, just keep things simple and neutral and functional, and most of all, fast.

They end the season with a four game, six-night road trip from hell, fighting all the way to the end for the top spot in the Central, but also fighting not to fall into third.

By the time he gets home, the Jets are locked into the second spot, their matchup with the Blues is set, and he’s got three days off and a fully furnished apartment, ready and waiting for him.

They fly in late, after a Saturday night game in Arizona. Sunday Mark sleeps in, has his traditional lemon water and fruit smoothie with oatmeal while he does his morning reading. He does a light workout, has a shower, and waits until Copper’s already deep into his video games before he mumbles something vague about having some things to take care of, and heads out.

And Mark’s had weeks to think about how best to go about this, weeks to plan every move and try to control for every variable. He even, just casually, made sure yesterday that Nolan’s staying on campus – sometimes he goes home on the weekend – and that he’ll be around today.

He parks in the Glasshouse garage and takes the resident elevator up to the 3rd floor. He doesn’t see a soul, from his car to the door of the apartment.

The place looks perfect; exactly what he’d hoped for. Everything is in shades of grey and cream, everything tasteful and simple and nondescript, with nothing extra, nothing fancy. The main room has a grey sofa and chair, a rug with a table, a floor lamp, and a mid-sized television mounted on the wall. To his specifications, the console table underneath it houses several gaming systems and a Blu-ray player.

The master bedroom has a king size bed with a slatted wood headboard, wood and chrome side tables with matching lamps on each, and that’s it. It looks like a hotel, which is kind of the idea.

Mark stows some stuff in the empty master closet, sits down on the cream colored duvet, and looks at his phone, blows out a breath.

Their message string looks pretty normal, so far today: 

Good morning selfie from Nolan, featuring messy hair, an adorably scrunched up face and only one open eye, and a caption that says _went too hard last night._

A string of puking and bandaged head emoji back from Mark, with a picture of his smoothie and oatmeal_. _

_FYI Prairie Vodka is organic. You’re not better than me._ and a picture of Nolan sticking out his tongue.

Some back and forth about the games last night, about playoff matchups and schedules, about whether Binnington is for real or what.

Nolan complaining that his Biochem professor is a Nazi, Mark complaining that the lemons his delivery service left while he was out of town were tiny and had barely any juice in them, Nolan responding with an eyeroll emoji, followed by what Mark can only assume was a sarcastically meant teardrop emoji.

So yeah, pretty much the usual.

But the last message is from Nolan, 9 minutes ago: _I don’t care what you say about clean eating, nothing cures a hangover like grease + fat. _There’s a picture of his tray from Taco Time, piled with burritos and mexi-fries. Mark feels his lungs go tight. 

This is off script – Mark had planned on Nolan being at his dorm, and Taco Time is even _closer_ than his dorm, which is – nerve wracking, to say the least. But hey, Mark can be flexible and call an audible.

Probably.

He fires off a response before he can think too hard and talk himself out of it.

GoPats93: _Is that the Taco Time right by the arena?_

NoPats98: _Wait, wait, wait. Are you allowed to know the location of a Taco Time? Your bf TB12 is gonna break up with you for this._

GoPats93: _I won’t tell if you don’t. You still there?_

NoPats98: _At Taco Time? Yeah, about to head to Timmy’s to complete the hangover trifecta with some caffeine._

GoPats93: _This might be weird so just tell me if it is, but. I’m right down the street. If you can get away, maybe you could swing by?_

Mark pushes send and stalks back into the main room, shoves his phone under one of the decorative pillows on the sofa, then meanders over to the kitchen to aimlessly pace back and forth, opening and closing the cupboards, looking at the pristine white dishes and brand new, right out of the box glassware inside.

He takes a glass down and fills it at the sink, drinks it down determinedly before he goes back to retrieve his phone.

NoPats98: _Wait, you mean like meet up? With you?_

GoPats93: _Yeah, I mean only if you want to. No pressure._

NoPats98: _Dude. I mean I’m pretty greasy ngl, and I def need a shower, but like – say when and where and I’ll be there._

Mark texts the address, tells him to call #307 from the elevator vestibule and Mark will buzz him up, he can come right to the door. Then he sits on the sofa and watches his phone while Nolan makes his way over.

NoPats98: _Just waiting for my coffee and ditching my friends then I’m on my way._

NoPats98: _Walk time says 3 minutes. What is this place anyway?_

NoPats98: _Whoa fancy building. I feel like a high-class hooker._

The buzzer on the wall rings, and Mark pushes the white button that allows guests and other people without the necessary electronic entry fob or mobile app to use the elevator.

It feels like no time at all, like seconds rather than the minutes it probably really is, until the knock on the door comes.

Mark pauses with his fingers on the door handle, breathes in, then out, then in, then out again. He doesn’t even bother to look through the peep hole.

He just opens the door, and there’s Nolan right in front of him, like some daydream come to life. Sneakers, ripped jeans, coffee in his hand, grey t-shirt and a flannel, jacket, Jets branded knit hat.

Pink cheeks, pink lips, blue blue eyes.

He’s tall, pretty much eye to eye with Mark, and big, broad. Mark knew that, intellectually, but seeing it right in front of him is different from knowing it. Mark _feels_ it, his physical reaction to Nolan being so close, taking up so much space. His pulse is pounding in his ears.

They stare at each other for a split second, awkward and nervous, and then Nolan raises an eyebrow.

“I’m not here as a high-class hooker, right?” he asks skeptically, eyebrow raised and jaw set, then he gives Mark a cheeky little grin, and the tension breaks.

Mark snorts and shakes his head, and steps aside to let him in.

-

“This is your place?” Nolan asks, tentative, as he steps into the entry hall.

“Just bought it,” Mark confirms, and opens the closet that’s conveniently located right next to the front door. There are coat hooks on the inside of the door, because Melissa is a professional. “You can hang up your stuff, if you want.”

Nolan nods and shrugs out of his jacket, hangs it on a peg then tugs his hat off and puts it there too. He runs his hands through his hair self-consciously; he wasn’t lying when he said he was a little greasy, but Mark’s not about to complain.

He leads Nolan down the hall, past the guest bedroom on one side and the guest washroom on the other, into the main room where the kitchen opens out into the living room. It’s small enough there’s no room for a dining table, just a few stools around the kitchen island and then the sofa and chair beyond that.

It’s a corner unit with floor to ceiling windows along two walls, and a door out on to the balcony at the far end of the room. Also at the end of the room is the opening to the master bedroom, which shares access to the same balcony, and the same wall of windows as the living area, but with a big industrial-style rolling door to close off the opening between the spaces.

“This is my first time seeing it with furniture in it,” Mark says as he gestures generally around the main room, “It just officially became mine like, last week.”

“Huh,” Nolan says, looking around like he’s expecting someone to pop out and tell him this is all a prank, or something, “and all this time here I was, imagining you in some million dollar mansion in like, Tuxedo Park or something.”

Mark blushes a little, but he doesn’t confirm or deny. Sometimes Nolan’s intuition when it comes to Mark is scarily accurate to the point of being – suspicious, if he let his mind go down that road.

In this case, he figures that at some point some article or interview has probably mentioned when he bought a house and where it was located, it’s probably publicly known. He’s just jumpy, because this is a whole new level of outside his comfort zone.

“This isn’t – it’s not my house, not really. My money manager thinks I should be investing in real estate, so.”

Nolan grins.

“Oh, so this is like, your side spot. House number two.”

“Three,” Mark can’t seem to keep himself from saying, as if two isn’t bad enough. “Just – I have a place back home. Kitchener, y’know.”

Mark realizes he’s kind of babbling, and Nolan’s grin is just getting bigger.

“Yeah, I know about Kitchener,” he says, teasing. “And I mean, I have like 100 square feet for all my worldly possessions and a washroom I share with like, 20 other people, but like, I get it. Sometimes when you’re ballin’ two houses aren’t enough, gotta get that third.”

Mark smirks, rolls his eyes.

“It’s mostly going on Airbnb, okay, it’s not like I’m gonna _live_ here, it’s just -.”

“Convenient?” Nolan asks, eyebrow raised and voice impossibly deeper, suddenly, like it’s a loaded question, like he’s implying something with that one word that he shouldn’t have been able to figure out. Once again, Mark has that uncomfortable feeling like Nolan can read his mind or something, see all his secret ulterior motives under his totally plausible, _reasonable_ explanations.

It’s almost uncanny.

Early on, Mark found himself asking Nolan a lot of defensive, half-accusatory questions about how he knew some piece of minutia or other about Mark, about his life. Nolan’s response was always, basically, some version of _what part of ‘obsessed with you since I was 15’ do you not understand?_

As a result, Mark’s had several long, stern conversations with himself about how to approach The Nolan Situation. The topline message of said conversations vacillates wildly.

Half the time he’s admonishing himself to take things slowly and not get carried away, to keep his head on straight and make sure he’s not getting swept up in _wanting_ Nolan, not convincing himself this could be something meaningful just to excuse himself doing things he really shouldn’t - whether sexually, or emotionally.

The other half of the time he’s reminding himself there really could be something real here, but it will _never_ work if he’s got his guard up constantly. That Nolan’s proven himself trustworthy at every turn so far and that it’s good to be cautious, but being constantly paranoid and withholding and emotionally distant is no way to get any of the places he’d like to go, or get any of the things he’d like to have, someday.

With Nolan, maybe. But also with anyone else, like, _ever_.

So Mark considers his options as responses go, and decides on a vague half-truth.

“Well.” He shrugs a little, nods a little uncomfortably. “I guess it’s close to the arena, so sure, that could be convenient sometimes.”

Nolan smiles, the tiny little reluctant one that looks like he’s trying hard to keep his lips from curling up. It’s the same one he’s had on his face in a hundred different selfies over the past six months, the ones that always make Mark feel stupidly fond, and a little turned on, and unclear about whether Nolan’s being purposefully flirty, or if he’s actually got a hint of legit bashfulness, if that familiar set of his jaw is more a stubborn show of stoicism meant to cover his shyness than it is any attempt to be coy.

It’s tough to reconcile that face with the same guy who sent Mark pictures of his jizz-splattered stomach, but the longer he knows Nolan, the more Mark can see how it’s that guy – the jizz-stomach guy – that’s really the anomaly.

That was Nolan shouting into the void, never really expecting Mark to hear him. Once he realized Mark was hearing him – loud and clear – his shouts immediately got a lot less e_xplicit._

“Well, you got me here,” Nolan says, looking up at Mark through his long lashes, biting his lip. Even in person, Mark still can’t tell for sure if it’s a put-on, or a come-on, this sort of sheepish, half-grumpy half-bashful thing he does.

Mark watches him carefully, and he just – he feels it, in his gut, that there’s no angle, no game, nothing coming from Nolan other than the same awkward, nervous-but-trying-to-seem-chill, cautiously optimistic vibes that Mark is feeling too.

He’s everything Mark thought and hoped he would be, so far, and he sounds as unsure as Mark feels when he shrugs and asks, “So, what do we do now?”

-

Mark is five years older, and he’s aware that the significance of those five years has possibly been exacerbated by the extremely outside-of-normal life Mark has lived in contrast to the comparatively normal life Nolan has lived. In all respects Mark is more worldly, more experienced, more knowledgeable than Nolan.

Well, almost all respects.

He knows Nolan has had sex with women – three of them. _One was my high school girlfriend, two was just to make sure, and three was because denial is a bitch_, Nolan told him once.

Obviously, Mark hasn’t done that. And they’ve both been very clear with each other that neither of them have yet to have any actual, in-person _experience _with. You know.

Men.

But aside from sexual matters, Mark feels very keenly both the need to be aware of and sensitive to the ways that the two of them are on unequal footing – to make sure that he doesn’t ever let Nolan feel taken advantage of, or taken for granted, or not taken seriously – and the need to. Well.

_Lead._

He’s the one in control here after all. It’s his turf, his terms, his timeline that they’re working with.

So he points at the console table, with its row of gaming systems, and shrugs.

“I was thinking maybe we could play some Fortnite?”

Nolan exhales audibly, and his grin is easy to read now: it’s clearly relieved.

“Yeah,” he nods, and tucks his hair behind his ear in a way Mark can’t help but find endearing, “that sounds good.”

So they play. It’s still awkward, tense at first, but they get into the game and forget everything else, soon enough.

Well, maybe not _everything_ else.

Mark is still hyper aware of the size, the heat of Nolan just a foot away from him on the sofa. There’s still something in his core that feels tuned into the rumble of his deep voice, like Mark’s whole body vibrates when Nolan speaks.

But they relax enough to chirp each other, give each other a hard time about the game, maybe throw an elbow or two under the guise of interrupting each other’s concentration, but maybe more honestly just to initiate bodily contact.

Hours pass in what feels like minutes. Mark’s lost count of how long they’ve been playing, but when they pause for a bathroom break, Mark’s stomach growls, and he looks at his watch.

“Uh oh,” Nolan says, and he’s grinning in a way that Mark just knows means he’s about to make a smart comment about one of Mark’s more rigorous lifestyle habits, “time to get some plant-based proteins and leafy greens in this guy.”

Mark snorts, but he doesn’t deny it.

“Hey, gotta keep the machine running.” He shrugs, not sure what to do next. He didn’t bring any food with him – his plan was for this to be an hour, hour and a half tops, just to dip his toe in the water, to give them both a chance to feel each other out a little. He didn’t expect Nolan to still be here, giving him a hard time and grinning that freaking grin at him, 4 hours later.

Nolan just puts the controller aside, wipes his hands on his jeans, nods and stands up.

“Yeah,” he jerks a thumb back over his shoulder, toward the door, “I didn’t mean to keep you. And I mean, I’ve got work to do for class tomorrow, so.” He shrugs, his face going back to pink in a heartbeat.

And it’s awkward again, just like that.

“Did you maybe -,” Mark starts, at the same time that Nolan says,

“I’m not sure -.”

They both laugh to cover their nervousness, Nolan’s hands in his pockets, rocking heel to toe, and Mark just. He just wants – something. God.

He reaches out, just enough, just so he can snag two fingers into the cuff of Nolan’s flannel. The backs of his knuckles slide against the warm skin on the inside of Nolan’s wrist, and now they’re both staring down at Mark’s hand.

“I’m not sure how this. How to – what to do next,” he manages to grit out. The air feels thick, like right before a storm. “I feel like I should know what I’m doing here, but I’m.”

He shrugs, helpless. So much for _leading_.

“Well,” Nolan says, and Mark can see him step closer, his white athletic socks bright and stark against the warm, dark wood of the condo floor, “I had fun hanging out today. Maybe we could do it again sometime?”

Mark nods, like he’s considering, and tugs on Nolan’s cuff. He takes another step closer, close enough now that there’s only a foot of space between them, maybe less.

“I mean, only if you want to,” Nolan says, so low, and Mark nods again, finally looks up.

“I definitely want to,” He says. “Wanting to has never been the problem.”

“Who says there has to be a problem?” Nolan asks, soft and careful. “Maybe there’s no problem at all. If two guys want to hang out and play video games, who cares, right?”

Mark snorts, rolls his eyes a little, because they both know playing video games together has never been the problem either.

“Okay,” Nolan says, still just as careful, voice steady, “well. If I don’t -. I mean, just in case this is the only time I get to see you, I’m giving you a hug. And you can’t stop me.”

He raises his eyebrow like a dare, and hesitates just long enough that Mark actually _could_ stop him, could step back and away if he really wanted to, and he knows that’s by design. That’s Nolan, giving him an out.

But Mark stands right where he is, and lets Nolan close the distance. His arms go around Mark’s ribs, close and strong and warm, and he tucks his face into Mark’s neck, leaving no space between them.

Mark returns the hug, hands spread firm on Nolan’s back, chin tucked over his shoulder.

“Sorry if I smell,” Nolan mumbles, and Mark laughs and shivers at once.

“You don’t smell,” he says, even though Nolan kinda does. It’s just – it’s not a bad smell, not to Mark. Actually, it’s kind of the opposite.

“You smell good. Like, really good. To me,” He says, and his voice is too thick, gives too much away. He feels Nolan shudder against him, then squeeze him even tighter.

“You too,” he breathes against the skin of Mark’s neck, “so good, like, it’s kinda killing me.”

Mark can feel his blood start to rush south at that, and that’s not – he can’t let things go that far, not today. Maybe not ever. He’s meant to still be deciding about that, rationally and objectively. He’s definitely _not_ meant to be getting an erection from a hug like he’s 13 years old again.

He steps back, a little abruptly, afraid of what he might do if he lingers.

Nolan steps back too, eyes wide.

“Sorry,” he says, “I just – sorry.” He gives Mark his little closed mouth smile, and nods toward the front door. “I better get going.”

Mark trails him into the front hall, stands a safe distance away and watches as Nolan pulls on his shoes, his hat, his jacket.

Nolan pats his pockets, feeling for his phone and his keys. He takes his phone out, something he hasn’t done all afternoon, Mark realizes for the first time, and the screen lights up in the dim hallway. He types something in, looking at the screen.

“Fourteen minute walk to my dorm,” he says, eyes on his screen, fingers moving over his keyboard. “Definitely convenient.”

He doesn’t look up, still typing away, but Mark’s phone lights up with a notification, and he looks down on instinct.

It’s a message from NoPats98. Mark has to grin. He raises an eyebrow at Nolan, but he opens the message without comment.

_Did you buy this apartment to have a place to meet up with me?_

Nolan is still looking down, still messing with his phone like he doesn’t even know Mark’s there, but Mark can see his jaw is tight, his face impossibly even more flushed than a moment ago. Mark’s fingers hesitate, but in the end, what’s the point in denying it?

_Sort of?_ Mark types back. _I mean, it was definitely a consideration._

Nolan looks up then, smiles the little smile that means Mark’s being ridiculous but Nolan thinks it’s cute, shakes his head, and turns back to his phone.

Another message comes through from NoPats98.

_So stop being an idiot, and ask me to come back again._

When Mark looks up, Nolan’s smiling, but his eyes are pleading, like he’s not sure if this tactic is going to work or not. Like he doesn’t know Mark is already wrapped around his finger, already unable to say no to him. Mark just sighs and shrugs, helpless.

“Hey,” he says, all casual, like he just thought of it, “I know you’ve got class tomorrow, but if you wanted to stop by after, I could hang out here for a while after skate. I mean. Just, if you’re free.”

Nolan snorts, shakes his head.

“Gee, I dunno,” he says, like the little turd he is, “it’ll be tough, but I can probably fit you in, I guess. Since you asked and all.”

Mark feels a big dumb grin spread across his face, but he can’t help it.

“Okay then,” he says, nodding stupidly.

“Okay then,” Nolan agrees, his hand on the door handle. His smile looks just about as big and dumb as Mark’s feels.

Then he leans over and presses his lips against Mark’s cheek, quick as anything – he’s there and gone, just like that. He doesn’t look back, just heads straight out the door, calling _see you tomorrow_ back over his shoulder.

Mark barely manages to walk the 7 steps it takes to reach the guest room bed before he collapses. He stays right there, breathing though it as the anxiety and the adrenaline in his system slowly work themselves down to a manageable level, until the gnawing hunger in his belly becomes insistent enough that he finally has to force himself to get up and go home.

-

Mark feels much more relaxed the next day. After skate at the Iceplex he stops at his favorite Co-Op for some of his standard snacks – unsweetened dried fruit, raw almonds, coconut chips, pumpkin seeds, organic chia pudding, raw organic protein bars, antioxidant mineral water – just enough to cover him for a bit, if it turns out he spends a little more time in the condo than he had originally expected, in the near future.

On a whim he also buys some nice-looking swordfish steaks from the fresh seafood case. Then a petit filet of beef, too, just in case – he can’t remember if Nolan’s ever said whether he likes fish.

He circles back through the store for some quinoa, grabs some fresh herbs, a few lemons, some spring squash and a couple of heirloom tomatoes and baby spinach. He’s not sure if there are any staples in the pantry – he didn’t even bother to look, yesterday, and he hadn’t specified that to Melissa, had only mentioned the cookware and cutlery and glass and dishware – so rather than chance it he grabs some olive oil and a grinder full of assorted peppercorns, and a little well of Himalayan salt.

He’s never been a great cook, and it’s been awhile since he’s even tried – he’s been having his meals delivered for the past couple of years - but he can sauté fish and vegetables, he’s pretty sure.

He gets to the condo, unpacks his groceries, turns on the comforting background noise of CSN and closes his eyes.

It’s only 1, and Nolan has class until 2:30.

He digs his phone out of his pocket and, like some kind of lovesick teenager, re-reads their conversation thread since last night.

It’s nothing earth shattering, nothing out of the ordinary. Just Nolan reporting in that he made it back safe to his dorm, Mark reporting in that he got his plant-based proteins and leafy greens. Nolan sending a pic of what looks like a chicken Caesar Salad on a brown plastic tray – a dead giveaway for his dining hall – with a caption that says _at least it’s not Taco Time????_

There’s a break in the convo there, where Mark assumed Nolan was doing his classwork and didn’t want to interrupt him, so he went down to the basement to lift some weights instead, just to burn off some of the nervous, buzzy energy that never seemed to dissipate even after he left the condo earlier.

Normally he would send a post-workout pic, since he knows Nolan is a fan of those, but last night he thought maybe – not.

Instead he’d taken a shower and worked out a little more tension that way, just the thought of Nolan’s body pressed against him, Nolan’s voice rumbling against his neck _more_ than enough to get him where he needed to go, and fast.

By the time he was dressed and in bed, there was another message from Nolan.

Just his usual, sleepy-looking goodnight pic, his bare shoulders wide and white against his dark blue sheets.

Usually he just says _sleep tight_ or _talk to you tomorrow_, but last night wasn’t exactly a usual night.

_Thanks for today, it was fun. I didn’t mean to be pushy about inviting myself back. I just really want to see you again, but if you’re not okay with it, or you want to think about it more or whatever, you should tell me that. I’ll understand. _

_Still hope to see you tomorrow, but just let me know what you want to do. Night!_

Mark had looked for a while at the creamy-pale skin of his shoulders, eyes riveted by the sparse sprinkling of hair visible on his chest just above the bed covers, and had to remind himself to breathe.

Mark still can’t be sure if it’s the right or wrong call, or if he’s doing it for the right or wrong reasons, but the way his heart seized up at the idea of maybe telling Nolan to forget it, maybe telling him Mark had changed his mind and needed some time, maybe not seeing him today after all – well, it made it patently obvious what Mark’s heart wanted, at least.

Mark thinks his heart has always been pretty trustworthy, has never lead him astray yet, so.

_I really want to see you again, too_, his last message from last night says. _I’ll be there._

-

It feels different this time, opening the door for Nolan. Less fraught, and more – not comfortable, exactly, but just - . 

Clear, maybe.

Nolan leaves his shoes and his jacket and hat in the front closet, along with his backpack, and follows Mark to the living room.

“Want something to drink? I’ve got water now.” Mark holds up his own bottle. Nolan grins.

“Hey, look at this guy. Pretty fancy.”

They stand there smiling a little dumbly at each other. Mark feels his face flush, and takes a sip of his water, glad to have something to do with his hands.

“So,” he shrugs, “Fortnite?”

Nolan’s hands are in his pockets, he’s rocking heel to toe just like he did yesterday, a movement Mark’s already come to associate with nervousness. He shakes his head, shrugs right back.

“Not really in the mood, I guess.”

“Oh.” Mark – wasn’t prepared for that. He doesn’t actually have a plan B, until dinner time.

“Did you,” he starts, mentally grasping at straws. “Uh, did you want to watch TV instead?”

Nolan’s cheeks are blotched with pink, and he takes a step toward Mark. They’re closer together than Mark had realized.

“Not really,” Nolan says, and shakes his head slowly. He’s chewing on his lip, and his eyes feel hot on Mark’s face.

Mark’s at a loss, not sure what else he has to offer in the way of entertainment, because - .

Then Nolan’s eyebrows go up, meaningful, like Mark’s missing something, and - .

Oh. _Oh._

“Oh,” Mark breathes “you wanted to. Uh.”

“I mean,” Nolan shrugs, and he’s got that reluctant little smile on his face again, the one that might be purposefully coy, or might just be shy, uncertain, “I dunno if you had me confused with someone else or what, but like, I thought I’d been pretty clear that yeah. I want to.”

He steps closer again, until there’s no room left between them at all. His hands slide between Mark’s arms and his body, resting at his hips. He keeps his head down, doesn’t look at Mark’s face when he murmurs,

“Don’t _you_ want to?”

“Uh,” Mark breathes, tries to hold himself in check, “of course I. I mean, yes, you know I want to, I just. I’m not sure if.”

Nolan groans, a little strangled noise of protest, and presses himself tighter against Mark.

“Please,” he says into Mark’s shoulder, and Mark wonders if he could actually _die_ from how bad he wants this, how much he wants to give Nolan anything he asks for. “It doesn’t have to be - . I mean, we can just like, make out a little, maybe? It doesn’t have to be a big deal.”

Mark snorts.

“Not a big deal, huh? Cause I’m always making out with guys from the internet.”

Now Nolan laughs, lifts his head up and that definitely does _not_ help Mark’s situation. His eyes are heavy-lidded and dark, whole face flushed and lips so, so impossibly pink, and Mark just. He can’t resist that, is the thing. He can’t be _expected_ to, can he?

And it’s -. It’s at least _possible_ that he doesn’t actually _need_ to, isn’t it? If Nolan’s here, and he wants to, and Mark wants to, and they’re both adults? He doesn’t have to keep resisting, he reminds himself. Nothing bad will happen just because he lets himself have a thing he wants.

“If we did,” he says carefully, “what would you -? I mean, how would we -?”

God, he’s an idiot.

But Nolan’s looking at him like he’s _not_ an idiot. He’s looking at Mark fondly, with his knowing little closed-mouth grin, and then he’s taking Mark’s hand, and walking backward toward the opening in the wall that leads into the Master bedroom, watching Mark’s face the whole way, and Mark -.

Mark’s just following where Nolan leads, going wherever Nolan’s taking him.

There are no blinds or curtains or anything in the main room, just all those windows everywhere you look. But in the bedroom, Melissa had the genius idea to hang a gauzy dark grey curtain, floor to ceiling, and Nolan lets go of Mark’s hand to tug it over the entire wall of windows, blocking out most of the afternoon sun and, Mark can’t help thinking, any potentially prying eyes from the buildings across the way.

“Lie down,” Nolan instructs, and Mark doesn’t argue, just lies back on the bed and watches breathlessly, heart hammering against his ribs, while Nolan pulls the rolling door closed, too. Instantly it feels safer, dark and small and private, sequestered away together in this secret place.

Nolan walks over to the bed, shrugs off his hoodie so he’s in just t-shirt and jeans. He sits down, knee up on the bed next to Mark’s hip, and runs his hand over Mark’s belly, slow and cautious.

Mark feels like he hasn’t breathed in years, like he can’t even remember how.

“I’ve thought about this so much, for so long, I don’t even know where to start,” Nolan shrugs, suddenly looking unsure again, and once again Mark feels the weight of responsibility press down on him. If he’s going to do this – and he _obviously is_ – then he’s got to participate, got to pull his own weight. He can’t leave it all on Nolan’s shoulders.

He stretches one arm out in front of the pillows, an invitation.

“I don’t think you have to know,” he says carefully. “Maybe just come down here, and we’ll try to figure it out.”

Nolan nods, his face clouded with eagerness and anxiousness alike, and he slides down onto the bed, up against Mark.

-

It’s warm and quiet, and so, so slow.

Every move of Mark’s hand, every shift of his body feels loaded with meaning. Nolan moves in small increments, closer and closer, careful but no less insistent for it. They fit themselves together silently, adjusting until Nolan is so tight up against Mark it’s damp between them, his face tucked into Mark’s neck again, his breath hot on Mark’s skin.

Mark can feel.

Oh, _God._

He can feel it against his thigh, that Nolan is hard. His hips hitch just barely against Mark, and he sucks in a breath through his teeth and then does it again, with purpose. And this is – it’s all going out of order. Mark needs to get a handle on himself.

He angles his hips back, puts a bit of space between them. Nolan whines into his neck, one hand fisted into the back of Mark’s henley, but Mark puts a finger under his chin, tips his face up.

“I’m gonna kiss you,” he says, low and soft, “if that’s okay.”

“What do you think making out even _is_,” Nolan grumbles, but Mark cuts him off there, covering Nolan’s mouth with his.

It’s sweet at first, a little tentative and uncertain. Mark reminds himself to take his time, to enjoy it for its own sake, not as a means to some other end, or a detour on the way to some other, bigger event. He lets his hands roam – above the belt only – takes time to map out the contours and planes of the body he’s looked at, but never felt before.

He learns the taste of Nolan’s tongue and the shape of his lips and the feel of his stubble rasping against Mark’s face. He learns the breathy little moans Nolan makes when Mark sucks on his ear, even louder when he sucks on his neck, and the way he whines when Mark stops doing whatever thing Nolan was in the middle of enjoying.

Nolan’s hands are under Mark’s shirt, splayed over the bare skin of his back, and they’re flush against each other again, somehow, legs slotted together and hips rutting against one another before Mark even realizes it. Nolan lets out a deep, rumbling groan, and his big hand palms Mark’s butt and _pulls_, and Mark jerks, suddenly jolted back into his right mind.

“Wait,” he pants, and puts a hand on Nolan’s chest, pushing. “Just wait, I don’t want to - . We shouldn’t get off, okay, not like this.”

Nolan whines, his hand still on Mark’s butt, and tries to squirm closer.

“Then how?” He pants “I’m up for whatever, just – come _on_.”

Mark can’t help it, he laughs. Nolan just sounds so – _desperate_. And Mark is, to be honest, a little giddy at the idea that he could make Nolan sound, much less _feel_, that way.

“Oh, you think blue balls are funny, huh?” Nolan scowls and shoves at Mark’s shoulder, calls him an asshole, but there’s no heat behind it.

“I think _you’re_ funny. And cute,” Mark says, and he can’t help how fond he sounds. “And dangerously distracting. You almost made me forget about dinnertime.”

He holds up his watch, which is showing 5 pm.

Nolan looks visibly wounded, almost comically crestfallen in a way that might make Mark laugh if it didn’t make his chest feel so tight. He already knows he never, ever wants to be the cause of a look like that on Nolan’s face.

“You have to go?” Nolan asks, and his jaw is set firmly, chin jutting almost like a challenge, but his voice sounds small.

Oh, right. Mark never mentioned anything about his big dinner plans to Nolan.

“Uh – actually I sort of thought. I mean, we could eat here, if you have time? I brought food.”

“Oh!” Nolan brightens immediately, that grudging little smile sneaking past his sealed lips and flexed jaw, then he narrows his eyes and his grin turns sly. “What are you gonna feed me, kale and tofu with flax seeds on top?”

Mark reaches under Nolan’s t-shirt and pinches his side. Nolan shrieks indignantly and slaps at him, rolls around dramatically, howling like he’s been shot.

“It was an honest question!” he insists, but he’s doing his thing where he’s trying to hide his giggle, and Mark has to kiss him again, and then again.

It takes a while before they actually make it to the kitchen.

-

Mark pulls all the ingredients for dinner out of the fridge while Nolan pulls up a stool at the island.

Mark makes sure Nolan likes quinoa, that he’s okay with all the vegetables, asks if he’d rather have swordfish or steak.

“As long as you’re offering, I’ll take both,” Nolan says in that low, quiet voice of his, watching as Mark rummages around for the things he hopes he owns and isn’t sure where to look for. “Not like I get a lot of either of those, in the dining hall.”

Finally Mark locates an appropriate pot for the quinoa, a measuring cup, a skillet, a spatula, a cutting board and a knife.

The only problem is he’s supposed to rinse the quinoa in a “fine mesh strainer”, which is a thing he cannot locate. It seems even Melissa has her limits.

“Okay,” he tells Nolan, “so maybe we’re not having quinoa after all.”

He shows Nolan the instructions on the box.

“I don’t think this kitchen has one of those,” he shrugs, “sorry. This was all kind of, uh. Last minute.”

Nolan just watches him, nodding slowly with the side of his mouth twitching.

“The dinner plans, or buying this place and filling it with stuff?”

Mark shrugs a little awkwardly.

“Well, I mean. Now that you mention it. All of it, I guess.”

Nolan slides off his stool, uncurling his long frame like a cat.

“Do you have a dishtowel?”

“Uh,” Mark opens a few drawers, until he finds one. He holds it up triumphantly.

“And a bowl,” Nolan instructs, coming around to Mark’s side of the counter.

Mark dutifully hands over a bowl, and Nolan spreads the dish out and sort of lines the bowl with it, then puts it down in the sink. He pours the quinoa onto the towel so that it fills the towel but is contained by the bowl, then turns on the water, and lets it run over the grain.

Mark watches over his shoulder as Nolan swishes the quinoa around in the water with his fingers, then picks the towel up from all four corners and makes a pouch, squeezes the excess water out.

He goes through the whole process again, then takes the towel over to the pot Mark has already put on the stove, and carefully deposits the damp grain into the pot, coaxing it off the towel where it’s sticking.

“Wow. Smart,” Mark says, a little dumbfounded. Nolan raises an eyebrow.

“Have you ever actually cooked quinoa before?” He asks, clearly skeptical, and Mark shrugs noncommittally.

“I’ve eaten it a lot,” he says, as if that answers the question.

Nolan snorts and rolls his eyes, but he leans over and plants a kiss on the corner of Mark’s mouth, so quick Mark can’t even register it before Nolan’s gone again, already turned back to the stove.

He cracks open the seal on the bottle of olive oil, uncorks it and pours a glug into the pot. Mark checks the package, and –.

_1 Tablespoon Olive oil_. Check.

Nolan also peels the plastic wrap off the salt well and the pepper grinder, and puts a liberal sprinkling of both into the pot, then he brings the pot over to the sink and adds water.

“It says here 1 cup of grain to 1.5 cups of water,” Mark says, a little worried, because he got out the measuring cup but Nolan isn’t using it at all.

“Don’t worry about it,” Nolan grins at him, then turns to put the pot on the stove. “I do this all the time.”

He says it so nonchalantly, flipping the dial for the burner and not even bending down to watch and make sure it lights, like Mark’s mom taught him.

“You do _what_ all the time?” Mark asks, incredulous, and Nolan shrugs.

“I make a lot of quinoa. Rice, pasta, lentils? Stuff that’s cheap and easy to make in your dorm room?”

“You can cook quinoa in your dorm room?” Mark asks, no less incredulous, and Nolan turns around smiling.

“You’d be surprised all the things I can do in my dorm room,” He smirks, with that coy little smile, and he sidles right up against Mark until it’s almost like Mark has no choice but to wrap his arms around Nolan’s body.

His face nuzzles right into Mark’s neck, just under his ear. His mouth is hot and wet against the exposed skin there, and Mark feels woozy, which somehow only makes him hang on tighter.

“I couldn’t even sleep last night,” Nolan rumbles, kissing along Mark’s jaw, “I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

Mark didn’t exactly have the most restful night of sleep either, to be honest, but – they’re supposed to be cooking dinner, and they’re right here in the middle of all these windows and everything - .

It’s too light outside for someone to see in the tinted windows, he tells himself logically, but then Nolan’s kissing him and Nolan’s _hands are on his butt_ and it takes Mark more than a few seconds to get his brain back online after that.

“Hey,” he pants, “we can’t -.”

“I know, I know,” Nolan pulls away with an annoyed face. “_Dinner_.”

He rolls his eyes, like dinner is some ridiculous concept Mark made up just to torture him, but then he leans back in for one more kiss before he pulls away, flushed and grinning.

Mark breathes a deep sigh, but he’s not sure if it’s disappointment or relief.

Nolan assigns Mark to chop the zucchini while he bustles around, taking charge of everything else.

Mark manages to chop about 5 thick, uneven slices before Nolan swoops in behind him with a sharp _Nope_, and gently extricates the knife from his hand.

“I think maybe I’ll just take over here, hot shot. Why don’t you have a seat, see if you can watch and learn.”

He doesn’t even look at Mark, just shoulders in front of him and hip-checks him out of the space he’d been standing in. His face is still all flushed, but he’s got that closed-mouth smile going, and he looks pretty smug.

Mark can’t help smiling back, can’t help the way it makes him want to - .

Well.

He just _wants_.

And so he reaches out, and just – does the thing he wants to do. Which is to swipe the errant lock of Nolan’s hair back from his face and tuck it behind his ear, then lean in close so his mouth is right at Nolan’s ear.

“Okay, _hot shot_,” Mark says, low, “show me what you got.”

Nolan keeps looking down at the cutting board, but he shivers a little.

Mark sits as instructed, and watches. Nolan’s hands move gracefully, efficiently, expertly. He chops the squash and zucchini into perfectly straight, perfectly uniform slices, then cuts the tomatoes into chunks. He wipes his knife clean, then chops up perfect little mountains of impossibly finely minced parsley and rosemary and thyme, blade moving quick and precise in a way Mark has never seen outside of cooking shows on television.

He tosses the squash and zucchini into a hot skillet with oil and salt and pepper, tosses in a handful of the herbs and squeezes in half a lemon, then slices it up and throws it in too.

Mark has no idea if you can even _do_ that, but Nolan seems to know what he’s doing so Mark keeps quiet.

He watches Nolan pat the fish and steak filets with paper towels, then rub them with oil. Mark feels like that should defeat the whole purpose of the paper-towel patting, but what does he know?

Nolan pours salt – like, an amount that feels like way too much salt – onto a plate, then dumps a bunch more herbs and pepper into it and stirs it all around with his fingers. He takes a fork and rakes it over the outside of a lemon, so little curls of the peel fall onto the plate, and he stirs those in, too.

He puts each of the filets face-down in the plate of salt and pepper and herbs, and when he turns them back over they’re coated in a crust of it. Then he puts them into a skillet so hot it sizzles when they make contact with the surface.

He fluffs the quinoa and dumps the tomatoes into the pan then stirs the vegetables and turns the filets. While they sizzle all over again, he finds a little plastic container and squeezes the juice from the remaining lemons into it, then adds olive oil, salt, pepper and the rest of the herbs, puts the lid on, and shakes the crap out of it. He peels the lid back and sticks his little finger in, has a taste.

“Pretty good,” he nods, and sticks another finger in, then holds it across the island toward Mark.

And Mark just leans forward, on auto pilot. Like there’s nothing to be wary of at all, like Nolan and his finger are no different than Mark’s mom, holding out a spoon for him to taste.

He takes Nolan’s index finger in his mouth, swirls his tongue around it. It tastes a lot like skin, but also tangy and herbaceous and bright, on top of that.

Mark sucks once for good measure, then realizes that _oh God he’s sucking on Nolan’s finger_, and slumps back onto his stool.

Nolan’s grinning at him, face flushed and eyes knowing.

“You like that?” he asks with a smirk, and Mark is -. Yeah, he’s in a lot of trouble.

“’s good,” he manages weakly, and Nolan nods and turns back to his work, apparently satisfied.

Mark isn’t really able to pay much attention, after that. He kind of loses track of time for a few minutes, mind re-playing Nolan’s finger in his mouth, the obvious implication in the way Nolan asked _you like that?_, until he looks up and suddenly Nolan’s sliding onto the stool next to him, and in front of him is a plate full of food.

The cooked vegetables are mixed right into the quinoa, along with the chopped fresh spinach. There’s a swordfish filet and a portion of the steak on Mark’s plate, and the whole thing is drizzled with the sauce that Nolan made with the lemon and the herbs and all that.

“Thanks,” Mark croaks, and clears his throat. “This looks awesome.”

Nolan just shoulders into him companionably, like it’s no big deal, and smiles as he digs into his food.

-

Mark insists on doing the dishes – it’s legitimately the least he can do – so Nolan eventually stops protesting and goes to play games while Mark finishes up.

He finds a scrub brush and dish soap and dishwasher pods under the sink, and puts a note in his phone to send Melissa a fruit basket or cookie bouquet or – just, something to show his appreciation.

Something big, and expensive.

He joins Nolan on the couch, and they make it through a few more rounds of Fortnite before Mark dies again, and Nolan hits pause.

“I should go pretty soon,” he says, nodding at the skyline outside the windows, just starting to darken with the first signs of dusk. “I still got work to do for tomorrow.”

“Oh, right, sure,” Mark says immediately, and puts down his controller. “You should go. I mean – whenever you need to.”

“I thought maybe before I have to leave,” Nolan’s put his controller down on the table as well, and he’s shrugging, but he’s looking at Mark with his eyebrows raised again, that same meaningful look on his face as before.

Mark must look uncomfortable when he recognizes it, because Nolan’s face scrunches up, and his head tips to the side with a sigh.

“Is it the age thing?” He asks, and even though Mark has never said anything about it, Nolan understands Mark too well not to realize that the age thing might be a _thing-_thing_._

Mark knows Nolan is an adult; he’s very aware that when he was Nolan’s age he was already playing in the NHL, living on his own, handling his own business, and conducting himself as a professional. Mostly, at least.

Still, he’d be lying if he said he didn’t still feel a little weird about the difference in their ages. Especially now that Mark’s turned twenty-six, and Nolan is still only 20, and Mark knows that the difference isn’t necessarily so much, doesn’t think it’s _too_ much, or anything, but it still doesn’t change how _young_ Nolan is.

“Because if you think you’re possibly like – pressuring me or something, I mean,” Nolan snorts, as if that’s the most ludicrous idea he’s ever heard, “that’s like, _definitely_ not what’s happening here. If anything it’s like I’m the one who’s - .”

He stops, bites his lip, and the pink spots on his cheek go lurid red.

“I mean, it _seems_ like you want to. Like, hook up with me? But it’s a little.” He shrugs, looks down at his hands. “It feels a little hard to tell for sure? So I mean, if you’re just not feeling it you could just tell me, y’know? And I’ll, uh. I mean, leave you alone, or whatever.”

He swallows hard, looking uncomfortable, his eyes pointed more at Mark’s shoulder than his face.

“Nolan,” Mark starts, and Nolan shakes his head.

“I told you, you gotta call me Pat, or Pats, Patty, something. No one calls me _Nolan_ except my parents.”

It gets a little laugh out of Mark, because he definitely knows what that’s like. It seems like he only hears Mark when he’s on the phone with his immediate family, otherwise it’s just an array of nicknames ranging from variations of his actual name to straight up insults. Even Nolan has mostly stuck to calling him _Scheif. _

The problem is, Mark’s already got a _Patty_ in his life, and in no way is he interested in conflating the two in his mind.

Just, _no._

“Right,” he says, very seriously. “Pats.”

The Pats in question rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning a little, so that’s something.

“Listen, this is my fault, okay? It’s just, I don’t. It has nothing to do with if I _want_ to – hook up. If that’s all there was to it, it wouldn’t even be - . I mean, that’s not even a question.”

“You don’t trust me,” Nolan says, nodding slowly, resigned, “I know. I’m not saying you should, yet, or like, that you don’t have your reasons to be careful and everything, but -.”

“No, listen,” Mark cuts him off, “it’s not even that, okay? You’ve been, like, very up front and honest with me and it’s just. It’s not a trust thing, it’s -.”

Nolan’s eyes are big and round, and he’s so freaking beautiful, and patient, and _God_, Mark wants to not have this discussion and just let Nolan take him back to the bedroom and close the door again, and just -.

But that’s not the deal. The deal is not, _now you’ve acknowledged to yourself and God and Nolan that you’re gay, so go do whatever you want_!

The deal Mark has made with himself is, _okay, you’re gay, but that doesn’t change your beliefs, or your understanding of what God expects of you and how you should conduct yourself_.

Mark has made peace with the fact that his situation will invariably change some of the logistical specifics - obviously he can’t get legally married, not while he’s still in the NHL - but he can make sure that his sexual behavior is otherwise in line with the spirit of _the rules_, as it were.

In other words, at the very least he needs to be in a committed, monogamous relationship. Better still if it’s a committed, monogamous relationship with the intent, at least, to make it a forever thing.

And nothing about that deal includes a caveat that allows lying in a bed with a guy you’ve met twice and rutting against him until you come in your pants.

Like,_ at all._

And he should have been upfront with Nolan about that a while ago, probably. He’s been a coward, to be honest – too afraid that if he made his beliefs and his expectations for himself plain, Nolan would lose interest fast.

But, as Mark’s mother has always said, there’s never a better time to tell the truth than right now.

“It’s about,” Mark blurts, then has to stop and take a breath. “I know this is not considered – normal, or whatever, but I. I have certain beliefs. From the perspective of my religious faith?”

Nolan’s eyes narrow and he takes a breath like he’s about to object, and Mark knows immediately what he’s thinking, but - .

“It’s not about like, being gay being _wrong_ or _a sin_ or anything like that. It took a long time, but I actually don’t believe that anymore. I know who I am and I know who I - . Or, like, that I want to be with a man, not a woman. That’s not a question, and I’m not like, planning to be alone and celibate forever because of it or anything. It’s just - .”

“I need to take my time. To be careful, and cautious, and not get carried away. Because I – for me – sex is meant for, like. A committed thing, a long-term thing. Not just a hook up. And I know you’re young and not - I mean I’m _sure_ you’re not looking for anything that serious and that’s - . I totally understand that. Really. But it just means that we’re in different places, looking for different things. So.”

Mark bites his lip, and waits for Nolan to say _thanks, but no thanks_. To stand up and shake his hand like the end of an awkward, too-long, overly invasive interview, and high-tail it out of here as fast as he can.

Instead Nolan just blinks slowly, and narrows his eyes again.

“Wait,” he shakes his head. “Are you saying you think _I’m_ the one who wouldn’t be interested in anything beyond a hook-up? Because that’s like – no.”

He huffs out a little laugh, incredulous, and wipes his hands on his jeans again.

“Scheif. _Dude_. You’re hot and rich and famous. You’re like, the most wanted man in Winnipeg. _You’re _the one who’s supposed to only want a hook-up. I’m just some kid with a crush who slid into your DMs and got lucky that you noticed. I’m the one who’s _obviously_ gonna be, like, working to snag you long-term even though I know it’s a long shot. I mean, you do realize that’s how this works, right?”

“I,” Mark says dumbly, because that’s not what -.

Well.

What Nolan is saying makes sense, in an abstract sense, but not in the actual particular situation they’re in. Mark is not some straight guy looking to get laid as much as possible. He’s like, the opposite of that in every possible way, so.

“I get what – what you _mean_, in theory, but it doesn’t really apply here. I’m obviously not, like, playing the field. I’m -.”

“Just waiting for random dudes of the internet to shoot their shot with you, and then hoping maybe you’ll click with one of them?” Nolan raises his eyebrow, like he’s daring Mark to contradict him.

Mark sighs.

“Listen. Obviously that wasn’t my plan. You showing up was - a surprise. A really great surprise. Having someone to talk to about this stuff, that’s not a small thing, y’know? Not to me. We don’t have to be in a relationship to be friends and still.”

He shrugs, feeling helplessly out of his depth.

“We can still be around for each other, just like we have been the last few months.”

“Oh, yeah. Okay, sure,” Nolan nods blandly, like he’s agreeing, but his voice doesn’t really match his face. There’s a hard edge there, at the end of the calm tone and placid demeanor, and the jut of his lower jaw is a dead giveaway that he’s holding something back.

“So we’ll just be the kind of friends who send each other jerk off pictures, right, got it. That makes sense. And I mean, I’m sure I can find some other closet case who’s just looking to get his v-card punched on grindr or some shit and then we can sneak around together and bang, and definitely not do anything longer term, since I’m not interested in that - _apparently_. And you’ll just be totally cool with that, right? I can talk to you about it, ask you for advice and tell you about all the hot, super casual hook ups I’m having, because we’re _friends_?”

Mark doesn’t know how to respond to that.

He does know, however, that he felt strong physical reaction to the idea of Nolan talking to him about hooking up with other guys, and it was of an _extremely_ adverse nature.

Which, he supposes, is Nolan’s whole point.

Of freaking _course_ Mark would not be _totally cool_ with Nolan banging someone – anyone – unless that someone is Mark.

Like - . Not _today_, obviously.

But, just, like.

Eventually.

His face must give him away, because Nolan’s looking at him with those raised eyebrows again, except this time they clearly say: _right, that’s what I thought._

“I know I seem young to you. I get that. But I have like zero interest in no-strings hookups with hypothetical _other dudes_,” Nolan says, and his voice is softer now, a little resigned. He shrugs, helpless.

“That’s not even on my radar. The only thing on my radar is _you_, and if there’s a way to make this work – that’s what I want to do. If that means we can’t hook up while we’re figuring shit out, I mean, not gonna lie, that’s rough. Like - .” He shakes his head and blows out a long breath.

“Like I wanna be supportive or whatever, and I know you’re super into the whole religion situation and I wanna let you do your thing, but like, _damn_. I wanna get my hands on you so bad, man. I wanna get your hands on _me_. I mean, just being real with you, y’know?”

Mark – yeah.

He definitely knows.

His fingers are practically aching just thinking about it.

He feels parched, suddenly, but his water bottle on the table is empty.

He licks his lips, and Nolan tracks the movement.

Mark feels the electric current crackle to life in the air between them, sudden and unmistakable.

“I really can’t,” he says weakly, because Nolan’s eyes have gone dark.

“Just to be clear,” Nolan says softly, “You just mean _can’t_ about the touching, right? Not _can’t_ about the whole thing?”

“Yeah,” Mark nods. “I mean, no – not about the whole thing. We can.”

He licks his dry lips again, nervous suddenly, and Nolan smirks.

“Uh huh?” he says, a challenge.

Mark breathes deep, tries to focus.

“What I mean is. If you really want to try to – to make this into something, then. Then I’m a yes, on that. Definitely.”

Nolan nods, slow like he’s trying not spook him by showing too much enthusiasm.

“Good,” he says, calm and even.

“But I. I don’t think we should be. Physical. Right now. Not until things are more – clear.”

“Can we still hug?” Nolan asks.

“Hugging is okay, that’s fine,” Mark confirms. He can handle that without losing his mind.

Probably.

“What about kissing?” Nolan continues, and his coy smile is back, he’s looking at Mark across the couch, out from under his lowered eyelashes. “Kids all over the world are kissing every day, without having sex.”

Mark blows out a breath. Nolan makes it sound so reasonable, but kissing earlier had turned dangerous, fast.

“Maybe,” Mark reasons aloud, “kissing is fine as long as we’re not. Horizontal.”

Nolan snorts, but when Mark gives him a sharp look his face turns cartoonishly innocent.

“Good, yeah, got it,” he says, quick, hands up in surrender. “No horizontal kissing.”

He clears his throat, and Mark steels himself for the smart comment he knows is coming.

“And the jerk off pictures?” Nolan asks, still the picture of innocence. Like it’s just a matter of intellectual curiosity, nothing more to it at all.

Mark sighs.

“I think,” he’s forced to concede, “it’s a little late to put that cat back in the bag.”

Nolan’s grin lights up his whole face.

“I can live with that,” he says, then he cocks his head to the side.

“What about,” he starts, and his face is suddenly pink again. Mark feels his own heart rate spike, in response.

“What if we didn’t touch,” Nolan says. “And I didn’t do anything to you. And you didn’t do anything to me.”

His hand is rubbing absently back and forth across his belly, his fingers just barely playing at the buckle of his belt. Mark feels the wave of desire rush through him, followed closely by a wave of panic.

“I don’t –,” he stammers, “I don’t think.” He shakes his head, and forces himself to gather his thoughts and say firmly. “I can’t do that. I just – sorry.”

“No problem,” Nolan says casually, voice light, but his fingers are still playing with his belt buckle, and he’s still got those dark, dark eyes. “You don’t have to do anything. You can just sit there, and not do anything at all, and you won’t have anything to feel bad about, or anything.”

And Mark should – he should put a stop to this, right away. Before Nolan undoes his belt and - .

Nolan’s already undoing his belt, and Mark already knows he’s not gonna stop it. But he should at least -.

“Just,” he says, and waves a hand. He hops up to turn off the light in the kitchen, then the floor lamp next to the couch. The low light of the paused television is all that’s left in the room, and with the way the dusky light outside mirrors the dim light inside, Mark feels marginally better.

“Good idea,” Nolan says, and his hand is sliding his zipper down. “Don’t want anyone to see. This is just for you, okay?” His hand snakes inside his open fly, and he lets out a little hiss when he rubs himself.

“I don’t wanna show this to anyone but you, Scheif,” he says again, and he turns a little on the couch, so his back is against the arm and his left knee’s up on the seat, so he’s facing directly toward the other end, where Mark has been sitting all night. “You wanna see, right?”

He’s still rubbing himself through his underwear, and God help him, Mark does want to see. He wants to see more than he’s ever wanted anything, pretty much, besides to play in the NHL, and also to _do more than just see_ Nolan.

Mark’s never even been in the same room with another man’s erection – all those jokes people are always making about the stuff that happens in Juniors sure never happened on any of Mark’s teams. He feels like his face is on fire.

He sits back on his end of the couch, mirrors Nolan’s position with his back to the arm rest and his right knee up on the seat. He takes a deep breath, blows it out slow.

“Of course I wanna see,” he croaks, “you know I do,” and Nolan’s mouth turns up at the corner, that little closed-lip grin.

“That’s good,” he says, “that’s so good,” and his hand slides into his underwear.

-

By the time Nolan’s done, Mark is white-knuckling the back of the sofa with one hand, and the cushion he’s sitting on with the other. He’s also so hard he could hammer nails, and barely hanging on to his sanity, much less his good judgement and self-control.

“Okay,” Mark groans, once Nolan is collapsed back against the decorative pillows at the end of the couch, flushed and slightly sweaty, hand still gripping his receding erection, panting into the silent room. “Okay, I can’t just sit here and. Look at that – you have to. Time for you to _go_, Pats – let’s move.”

He stands abruptly, and Nolan lets out a long, deep laugh, all sated and happy sounding.

“You’re the one who made the rules,” he points out, while Mark keeps his back turned, digging around in the fridge for a bottle of water then cracking it open and drinking half of it at once.

Slowly he can hear Nolan starting to move around behind him, presumably putting himself back together and starting to gather his stuff up. Mark only turns around once he thinks it’s safe.

Nolan’s standing at the edge of the kitchen, shrugging his hoodie over his head. As soon as he does, his eyes go straight to the bulge of Mark’s fly.

“You could just – look the other way,” he tries, shrugging innocently, “and I could cop a quick feel?”

“You’re the worst,” Mark sighs.

“Just to get an idea!” Nolan laughs, grinning at his own jokes. “Just so I know what I’m missing?”

“Get _out_, you absolute menace,” Mark shoves at him, forcing him toward the hall.

Nolan’s still laughing as he slides on his shoes, pulls on his backpack. Mark stands a safe distance away, trying to ignore the insistent throbbing in his crotch.

“We haven’t,” Nolan starts, and Mark cuts him off with a nod.

“Tomorrow,” he says. “If we’re, y’know – doing this. Then let’s – come by tomorrow after class. I’ll be here.”

“I can cook for us again, if you want.” Nolan’s cheeks flare at that, and Mark thinks he’ll never understand the things that make Nolan feel embarrassed and the things that don’t. “I mean, if you bring the Brady – approved food, or whatever.”

“That would be great,” Mark nods, “really – yeah. Let’s plan on it.”

Nolan nods, then steps closer.

“I can do that again, too,” he says, low, and jerks his head toward the main room, and Mark just. God, Nolan is gonna be the death of him.

“Yeah,” he breathes out, because he’s so freaking weak for this guy, “yeah, that’s. Okay.”

Nolan’s hands land on his hips, and Mark tenses, but he doesn’t pull away.

“You said hugging was allowed,” he points out, and eases his arms around Mark, slow and careful. “And kissing. Look, we’re vertical and everything.”

His nose brushes against Mark’s and Mark thinks his knees might give. This is all just – it’s ridiculous, that Nolan can do this to him, can make him feel this off-kilter, this out of control.

“Yep,” Mark confirms, valiantly attempting to exude way more chill than he actually feels. “This is fine.”

“Then kiss me goodbye,” Nolan murmurs, lips practically already against Mark’s mouth, and he just - .

He gives in, there’s no other way to put it.

He sags against Nolan, both of them stumbling back against the wall. His hands go up to tangle in Nolan’s hair.

“God, you’re so –,” he groans, and Nolan pants,

“What?” breathless, like whatever it is he’s dying to hear it.

“I can’t believe how bad I want you,” Mark grits out, “it’s not even _fair_, it’s not even - .”

They make out like that, clutching each other against the wall of the entryway, breathing each other’s breath and whimpering into each other’s mouths until Mark is rutting against the hard jut of Nolan’s hip, and Nolan’s panting _yeah, c’mon, yeah_, and Mark is –

Suddenly stumbling back, Nolan’s mouth ripped away from his, cold all along his front where Nolan’s heat used to be.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, eyes wide. “For the – _God_. I’m just – so many mixed messages, and everything. I meant what I said before, really, it’s just that -.”

“You can’t believe how bad you want me?” Nolan says, low and sly, and Mark huffs.

“Pretty much,” he sighs, helpless.

“Right back at ya, bud,” Nolan shrugs, and then he takes a step toward the door.

“Tomorrow, yeah?” He says, just checking that nothing’s changed, as if Mark’s resolve to tell him no now might be getting better instead of worse.

Mark just nods, affirmative.

“See you then.”

Nolan grins and gives a little wave, and slips out the door.

Mark turns on his heel and heads straight to the master bathroom, turns the shower on full blast.

-

The next day goes pretty much the same. Mark brings the food, Nolan brings himself. They play video games and watch the talking heads on TV make play-off predictions and talk nonsense. Nolan cooks dinner and Mark cleans up. They kiss fleetingly and touch in passing and flirt outrageously (okay, mostly Nolan) and make dumb googly eyes at each other, like, pretty much non-stop (okay, mostly Mark). Still, it makes Mark feel more in control than he has the past two days, like he’s maybe figuring out how to get a grip on The Nolan Thing, a little bit.

They manage to stay out of the bedroom, which is its own kind of accomplishment, but Nolan jerks off again, out on the couch, obviously reveling in Mark’s rapt, slack-jawed attentions. He makes breathy little comments in that deep, rumbling voice about how he can’t wait until it’s Mark’s hand on him.

Mark pretty much just white knuckles his way through it again, all the while feeling like he might actually die from _wanting_.

But Mark’s playoffs start tomorrow, and he has to get his head on right, so after some more frantic goodbye kissing at the door, from which Mark once again narrowly escapes with his virtue intact, they make plans to see each other again on Thursday. Nolan gives him one more long, hot, intoxicating kiss, _for good luck_, he whispers, and then Mark goes to take a very long, very hot shower during which Nolan, while in the middle of his walk home, sends him a string of messages about how watching Mark watch him earlier is the hottest thing Nolan’s ever done in his life, including actual sex. And how much Nolan can’t wait to watch him play tomorrow night and how he also can’t wait until he doesn’t have to leave and can just join Mark in the shower, and how once that day comes Mark will never have to use his hand again because Nolan will be there to take care of him. The string ends with a selfie of Nolan in front of his dorm, obviously having made it back home. He captions it with _hope that helped_ and a kissy face emoji.

Mark actually did find the whole string pretty – well, _inspiring_ – to read while he was in the shower, which he knows will make Nolan happy. So he responds with _It did, actually. Twice. _and gets a million blushy faces and heart eyes emoji in return.

Mark goes into Wednesday feeling nervous, but good, overall. He’s a little jittery, which is par for the course, but definitely ready to get the show on the road.

It starts well: the Jets score first and hold onto the lead all the way through the second and into the third.

Then the Blues score and suddenly it turns into -.

Well, without using language that Mark doesn’t use, all he can say is it starts with a cluster and ends with an _uck._

Mark has nothing to show for his night but a stint in the penalty box and foul freaking mood.

-

Mark’s bad mood lasts well into the next morning, long enough that he wonders if he should cancel on Nolan and spare him the misery. But in reality, he knows maybe only thing in the world that could possibly turn his mood around _is_ Nolan, so after skate and media at the Iceplex on Thursday he gives in to the inevitable. He’s got a few extra prepared meals from his service stockpiled in the fridge at home because of the time he’s been spending away, so he stops at the house first and loads up.

“Back to the condo?” Copper says, walking into the kitchen while Mark is stacking up the waxed cardboard containers on the counter.

Mark has played it a little vague with Copp about why he’s been hanging out at the new place so much the past few days, making some passing comments about still needing to get things put in order over there, but also mentioning getting his mind right and focused on playoffs, talking about there being fewer distractions and more freedom to relax when he’s there, like a stay-cation in a way, except he’s been coming home to sleep.

Because Andrew is literally the best about just taking all Mark’s off-the-wall ideas and various personality quirks in stride – they wouldn’t be such good roommates, if he wasn’t – he’s pretty much just shrugged and said _cool_.

“Hey, yeah,” Mark nods, and grabs a couple more meals for good measure, “I think I might actually try staying there tonight, go straight to the rink in the morning.”

“Whatever works, bud,” Copper says, snagging some green juice from the fridge. “See you there.”

He wanders out of the kitchen without looking back, completely unsuspicious and unperturbed. Which is exactly what Mark wants, so. At least something’s going according to plan.

At the condo he unloads his food and stows his overnight bag in the closet, heats up some lunch then turns on CSN to watch while he eats. After, he stretches out on the couch to wait.

He’s dead asleep by the time the buzzer rings to announce Nolan’s arrival. It takes Mark a minute to regain consciousness, to realize where he is and what’s going on, to shuffle over to the wall to press the right button.

“Dude, you look wrecked,” Nolan says when he sees him.

“Sorry, I fell asleep.” Mark gestures vaguely in the direction of the couch, then vaguely in the direction of the refrigerator. “I brought a bunch of food, if you want lunch.”

“I ate breakfast late,” Nolan says by way of response, his head cocked to the side and eyes appraising. “But seriously, you don’t look so hot.”

Mark snorts.

“Gee, thanks.”

“Just tired, is all I mean,” Nolan says, and his voice is soft. So is the look on his face. “Let’s take a nap.”

“I’m good,” Mark insists, “I just took one.” But Nolan reaches out, takes his hand.

“If you’re so good, you might wanna tell your face. And I’m always down for a nap, like, pretty much whenever, so. C’mon.” He jerks his head, and Mark’s hand, toward the bedroom door.

“Oh sorry, I didn’t realize you’re in charge now,” Mark grumbles, but he lets Nolan pull him into the bedroom without any further protest.

Mark’s yet to actually get under the covers of the master bed, but he does now, and its heavenly. Cool sheets, soft mattress, firm, brand new pillows that smell like fresh linen. Nolan closes the door and pulls the curtain across the wall, pulls off his flannel and starts working on his belt.

“You know this is just napping,” Mark says warily, watching Nolan shove his ripped skinny jeans down over his hips, but Nolan just rolls his eyes.

“We’re not going to spontaneously bang because I took my jeans off,” he scoffs, “they’re too tight to sleep in is all.”

It sounds plausible enough, but the skimpy briefs Nolan is wearing don’t leave much to the imagination, and Mark’s got no problem picturing how it could go from innocent napping to not-so-innocent rule breaking in no time flat.

But Nolan just climbs under the covers in his t-shirt and underwear, thumbing at his phone.

“Any particular time you need to wake up?” he asks, the alarms app open on his screen.

“Maybe like, 4?” Mark yawns dramatically. “I don’t want to sleep so long I can’t sleep tonight.”

“Four,” Nolan says, setting the alarm, “got it.”

He puts the phone on the bedside table, then turns over. He slides in close to Mark and throws an arm over his middle, settles in with a little sigh.

“This bed is _nice_,” he mumbles, nose and mouth smashed against Mark’s shoulder, breath hot through Mark’s shirt. “My bed is like sleeping on a pile of bricks compared to this thing.”

“Mmmm,” Mark hums sleepily, and slides his hand over Nolan’s on his belly, wraps his fingers loosely around Nolan’s wrist and holds it there.

“Nice to have company, too,” Nolan whispers, eyes still closed, but when Mark opens his to take a peek in the dim room, Nolan’s cheeks are flushed pink.

Mark feels flooded with overwhelming fondness, even over and above the low level, buzzy giddiness he always feels just being in the same vicinity as Nolan.

He lifts Nolan’s hand to his face, watches as Nolan’s eyes flutter open and land on Mark’s. He holds Nolan’s gaze while he kisses the back of his hand, twines their fingers together.

“Having company’s not bad,” he confirms softly, and Nolan blinks up at him a few times, slow, then grins his bashful little grin and lets his eyes close for good.

Mark wakes up wrapped around Nolan, his front plastered all along the backside of Nolan’s body, surprising precisely no one.

Nolan just turns off the alarm and politely ignores the way Mark’s erection is very obviously pressing into his butt.

“Hey,” he says instead, rolling over to face Mark, “this might be kinda weird, but. I’ve been reading this book on therapeutic massage. My Exercise Physiology prof wrote it, so it’s for extra credit. I dunno, I could try out some techniques on you, if you’re up for it?”

On one hand, Mark is always up for a massage. On the other hand, the kind of massage he usually gets is from the training staff – perfunctory, businesslike. A massage from Nolan sounds kind of - .

Sexy.

Which Mark should really try to avoid, considering he’s already got a hard-on.

Like he’s reading Mark’s mind, Nolan shakes his head.

“No funny business,” he says firmly, like he means it. “Promise. Just take off your shirt and lay on your stomach. I’ll be right back.”

He doesn’t leave any room for protest, so Mark just does as he’s told, shucks his t-shirt and rolls over, presses his dick into the bed a few times with a groan.

Not surprisingly, that doesn’t actually help the problem. Like, at all.

Nolan comes back with the bottle of olive oil from the kitchen, climbs onto the bed and straddles Mark’s butt, situates himself just in the right spot to put the most possible pressure on Mark’s erection.

Mark tenses and tries not to groan out loud. Instead a muffled, strangled little wheeze comes out of him, and Nolan laughs, a low rumble deep in his chest.

“I can _see_ the tension in your shoulders,” he says, soft. He leans down over Mark’s back, so his voice is right at Mark’s ear. “_Relax_. There’s no crime in getting turned on, right? It’s not against the rules to get a stiffy, is it?”

Mark just grunts in answer, and Nolan’s laugh rumbles again.

“You comfortable? Need to adjust – anything – before we get started?”

“I’m good,” Mark sighs, and hears Nolan uncork the bottle of oil.

It’s a cool drizzle across the back of his shoulders, then Nolan re-corks the bottle and sets it aside. His hands are warm, his touch light at first as he spreads the oil around. Mark lets out a deep breath, and along with it some of the tension he’s been holding onto since last night.

“There you go,” Nolan whispers, and starts to really dig in. “You’re supposed to start at the ends of your fingers and move down your arms, thinking about relaxing every part as you go. That’s what it says in the book.”

Mark tries to do as he’s told, concentrating on letting his fingers, wrists, arms, then his shoulders, his neck and back all go lax and pliant. Nolan’s hands are firm and strong and the weight of him is grounding, holding Mark in place. Even with all the napping he’s done today, he starts to drift a little, feeling sleepy and relaxed and _sated_, in a way, for all that he’s still hard as nails.

It doesn’t feel urgent, at the moment - not when Nolan’s touching him like this, hands slow and steady, sliding smooth over Mark’s skin, leaving it feeling tingly and flushed and _alive._

“You’re good at this,” he mumbles, “you could do this for a living.”

Nolan just laughs.

“I could definitely _not_ do this for a living,” he says with a soft little huff, “the general public is way too disgusting to touch.”

He leans over to reach for the oil again, and, yeah.

That’s definitely Nolan’s hard dick rubbing up against Mark’s butt. He tenses again, just instinctively, and Nolan stills.

He leans back to put his mouth near Mark’s ear again, his body pressed along Mark’s back.

“We decided there’s no rules against getting turned on, eh?” he whispers. “It’s okay for you to like me touching you, and it’s okay for me to like touching you. It’s a massage, it’s _supposed_ to feel good. Right, bud?”

Mark breathes deep, and wonders how someone so much younger than him is also so much smarter than him. It should probably be embarrassing, to have Nolan soothing him like he’s a frightened child, or something, but.

Well.

Mark feels really, really good, is the thing, and Nolan’s body pressing down on top of him, his voice low and reassuring, his breath warm on Mark’s ear, it all feels.

_So_ good.

“Yeah,” he breathes finally, and Nolan presses a quick kiss to his temple, then sits up and gets back to what he was doing.

Mark drifts some more, barely recognizes how far he’s zoned out until the bed dips with the weight of Nolan’s body moving.

When Mark opens his eyes, Nolan’s standing next to the bed, leaned down over Mark again so his mouth is close to Mark’s ear.

“All done,” he says, “time for you to hit the showers I think, huh?”

Mark does a quick mental check and – yep, definitely time to hit the showers.

“Yeah,” he croaks, throat suddenly dry, “thanks.”

Nolan stands back, toward the door, but Mark knows he’s watching. Mark’s still wearing his sweat pants, but when he stands up the bulge in the front is – obvious.

As is the dark wet spot on the light grey fabric.

Mark looks down at it, then up at Nolan, his cheeks burning.

Nolan just shrugs, and smirks.

“I think I’m gonna, uh. Use the other washroom,” he says, and clears his throat pointedly. “Take your time in there,” he nods toward the ensuite, “I’ll start dinner.”

-

Nolan sets up his laptop on the island and cracks open a textbook, after dinner. He doesn’t bother to ask permission, just settles in as Mark’s cleaning up the kitchen, then slowly drops his end of the conversation as his focus shifts to his schoolwork.

Mark doesn’t mention it, but it makes him grin a little to himself. He’d be lying if he pretended he didn’t like it – Nolan relaxed and at home in Mark’s space.

Mark doesn’t resist the urge to run a hand down Nolan’s back as he leaves the kitchen, to drop a kiss onto his t-shirt clad shoulder before he posts up on the couch with his own laptop, queues up the film from Game 1.

It’s quiet, comfortable. It feels domestic, and easy. The live wire of tension that’s been vibrating between them hasn’t disappeared, not exactly, but Mark thinks today has changed things, somehow.

He’s knows Nolan is right – it’s okay to be turned on by someone, and it’s okay to like that someone touching him. It’s okay to like the way Nolan’s body felt in his arms, to like having someone there with him in his bed, and it’s even okay to _acknowledge_ that he likes it. Here, with Nolan, he doesn’t need to hide what he wants, doesn’t need to pretend or deny or avoid it like an elephant in the room. He doesn’t need to fear it, or run from it, the way he’s been doing for so long.

Desire is a perfectly natural part of a relationship – albeit not one Mark has ever really had to seriously grapple with before – and leaning into it a little, in a safe, contained way like they have today, feels a lot more sustainable than Mark’s failed attempts to keep it at arms-length, to ignore it completely like there’s some door he can close between himself and his desires to keep them at bay.

But Mark has literal years’ worth of his parents and church leaders voices in his head, teachings about sexual purity and avoiding temptation, about making wise choices and safeguarding your heart and mind, about holding back all thought or expression related to love or sex until you find that person, The One God Has for You.

Even when he knows, intellectually, that he doesn’t really buy that anymore – it’s still hard to shake the habits.

Because the kids Mark grew up with signed Purity Pledges and wore promise rings. They didn’t “date”, lest they forget to guard their heart against developing the wrong feelings at the wrong time, for the wrong person, a person who was not The One God Has for You. They all moved in a pack from Youth Group outing to Bible Study to Mission Trip to Christian Youth Conference to yet another Youth Group outing, collectively policing one another’s behavior, priding themselves on not needing adult chaperones because of the way they _held each other accountable_.

Mark was, of course, a star pupil in that world – decorated athlete, devoted brother and son and friend, faithful servant of the church, always respectful and never inappropriate with the girls. It was Mark that all the mothers prayed was The One God Had for _their_ daughters. Mark had prayed too, for the same thing. Prayed that one of those girls – the ones he’d known his whole life and whom he did really care about, in many ways – would suddenly morph into The One. Not just The One God Had for him, but The One to save him, from his own sinful nature, from the wrongness of his desires.

All those years of teaching tell him The Right Way, _The Only Way_ to have a truly happy, truly loving, truly sanctified intimate relationship is to enter into it unspoiled, to bring with him a pure heart and pure body to lay at the feet of his beloved; a pristine, brand new gift to be unwrapped and enjoyed by only one person.

It’s taken Mark years of pain and prayer and reading and reflection to be able to recognize the ways that whole mindset contains its own kinds of obscenity. To realize that the Purity Culture he was raised in was, on the whole, just a man-made religious _lifestyle brand_ invented, commodified, and monetized on the backs of impressionable young people. Years, to recognize how often it sets those same young people up for a lifetime of guilt, shame and failure if they can’t or don’t live up to that standard of perfection, or sometimes even if they _do_.

Mark has spent the last several years reading up on the politics of Biblical translation, editing and censorship through the years. He’s delved into original intent, the ancient church, and tried to take a long, well-informed look at what religion actually is, and what the body of Christ is meant to be outside the lens of the Institutional church and its customs and traditions. He’ll put his hours of study up against anyone who’s gone to Seminary, and that includes the pastor of the church he grew up in.

In fact, he’d put his hours of study up against the Pastor, all the church Deacons, and every guitar playing, skateboard riding, rubber bracelet wearing, wannabe-hipster Worship Leader at every Christian Youth Conference he ever attended, combined.

He’s read Vine, Knoch, Thayer; he’s heard their philosophies on how the modern church gets morality wrong, takes sexual desire out of context and demonizes it as something to do battle with, rather than something to celebrate and enjoy as a natural human function and a God-inspired instinct. He’s felt it in his_ heart_ that they’re right.

Yet allowing himself to go down that path, thinking about actually taking the plunge still feels.

Not _wrong_, exactly, not anymore. Just – unknown. Scary and fraught with room for error.

But just because something is scary, Mark reminds himself, doesn’t mean it’s bad, or wrong. That’s his old way of thinking.

Now he knows, something can be scary for lots of different reasons, and one of the main ones for Mark is because it makes him feel _vulnerable_. But Mark’s also read Brené Brown and knows that it takes courage to be vulnerable, and that bravery isn’t the absence of fear, but the willingness to act _in the face_ of fear. Mark wants to be that guy – The Man in the Arena, uncowed and courageous in both decision and action. He _wants to_, it’s just.

Mark watches Nolan, sitting at the island of this condo Mark bought, basically, just to meet him. He watches the muscles of his back move under his t-shirt as he highlights a passage in his book, then puts his highlighter in his mouth while he types something on his laptop. Nolan tucks his shaggy hair behind his ear, an idiosyncratic move he performs habitually whether it’s actually needed or not, and turns his head just enough so that Mark can see his profile in relief against the light from his laptop screen.

And God, he’s really.

He’s beautiful. And funny and clever and understanding and sometimes insufferably stubborn and smug and so hot it’s not even close to fair, and basically exactly what Mark had both hoped for and dreaded for all those months when they were just chatting, even before that when the conversation was one-sided, just Nolan talking to Mark with no expectation of ever being heard. Back when Nolan was just a half-real, half-imagined person on the internet onto whom Mark could project whatever characteristics and qualities he chose.

But mainly, if Mark’s honest, Nolan is just.

Well.

He’s terrifying.

The things he makes Mark feel, the things he makes Mark_ want_? The way those things could end up changing Mark’s whole life in ways he’s not sure he’s ready for, but that he finds himself _craving_ none the less? It’s all just – yeah. Utterly terrifying.

But.

But terrifying isn’t a good enough reason not to do something.

Not for Mark, not anymore. That’s what he has to keep reminding himself, right up until he actually believes it.

He sets his own laptop aside, silently. He’s not sure what he’s doing he just – wants. Beyond the fear and the doubt and the uncertainty, the truth behind it all is that he just wants to be closer to Nolan, to touch him. He wants to ask him to stay.

He walks up behind Nolan’s stool; his arms go around Nolan’s waist, chin over his shoulder.

Nolan starts a little, then melts back against him with a little huff.

“Scare the shit out of me, why dontcha there?” He complains, but he’s leaning into Mark’s chest, tipping his head back and to the side so his neck is exposed to Mark’s mouth.

“I was thinking I’d just stay here tonight,” Mark says against that smooth, white skin. “Morning skate is at the arena, so. Easier, maybe.”

“I always heard you weren’t very superstitious, but that’s a big change even for you, mixing it up like that in the middle of the series.”

“I dunno,” Mark shrugs. “Not like sleeping at home brought me such great luck last night. Or last year.”

“Hey!” Nolan turns with a scowl, and Mark grins a little. It never fails that Nolan will react defensively if anyone badmouths his team.

Even if that someone is Mark, who’s, you know – _on_ his team.

“Conference Finals is a good year, I don’t care what anyone says. Sure it wasn’t our best series, but like, only one team gets to go out on a high note, right? Doesn’t mean it wasn’t still a good fucking season.”

“Thanks, coach,” Mark grins, and Nolan shoulders into his chest with a huff.

“Anyway,” Mark squeezes his arms tighter around Nolan’s middle, gets his mouth back up against the hot, smooth skin of Nolan’s throat, “I was gonna stay, so, if you wanted. You could, too.”

Nolan jerks a little, putting distance between their bodies. He spins on his barstool until he’s facing Mark, forehead creased and eyes narrowed.

“Stay here?” he raises a skeptical eyebrow, like maybe he’s misunderstood. “With you?”

“I mean,” Mark shrugs, suddenly unsure. “Just - if you wanted to, you could. You don’t – you maybe need to go home, so that’s cool. Just offering.”

He goes to take a step back, stinging with rejection and feeling like an idiot for it. It’s fine if Nolan can’t stay, it’s – it’ll be fine, and Mark’s being ridiculous.

But Nolan’s skeptical face slides slowly into that little closed-mouth smirk, and he hooks his foot around the back of Mark’s knee, drags him closer again. Drags him right up into the vee of Nolan’s legs, and then his hands slide up under the back of Mark’s t-shirt, spread wide and strong over Mark’s bare skin.

“Just offering, huh?”

That deep voice is a rumble in his chest, his cheeks pink and eyes wide and shiny. Mark shrugs again, one shouldered and half-assed.

“No big,” Nolan goes on, mimicking Mark’s shrug right back at him, “just thought maybe I could stay here and sleep in your bed and see you in the morning before your game and get to kiss you goodbye and wish you luck and everything. Nothin’ much, eh bud?”

Mark rolls his eyes.

“Nothing much,” he agrees, and he’s going for nonchalant, but he can’t keep his face from going dopey and fond, can’t keep the smile off his lips.

“You’re not afraid I’ll lose my chill and start humping your leg in the middle of the night?” Nolan moves his hand down to grope Mark’s butt, and grins, cheeky.

“I’ll take my chances,” Mark says, wry, and firmly removes Nolan’s hand, anchoring it with his own to Mark’s hip.

“Never let me have any fun,” Nolan pouts, but whatever he was going to say next is muffled by Mark’s mouth.

-

It’s a back and forth thriller of a Game 2. St. Louis opens the scoring, but Wheels follows up just a few minutes later on Mark’s assist, and they go into the first break tied. Mark’s feeling okay, other than the two stints he spent in the box.

Patty strikes first in the second, putting them up for a few minutes, but then the Blues score, and score again, and suddenly they’re staring down the barrel of a 3-2 hole. The period keeps winding down, and Mark starts feeling a little desperate.

He thinks about Nolan, back at the condo watching on TV, waiting for Mark to come back after the game tonight, wanting a win so bad for Mark’s sake, but also for the sake of his hometown team, for the sake of his city.

Mark doesn’t want to let him down – doesn’t want to let any of them down.

He puts his head down and _works_. He digs into the corners and throws his weight around. He skates like his life depends on it. With a minute and a half left in the period, the Jets draw a penalty, and this is it, this is the shot they’ve been waiting for, Mark can feel it.

20 seconds into the power play he gets his opening, right from his sweet spot at the side of the slot, and he rifles it up high over Binnington’s blocker.

Just like that they’re tied, and the whiteout crowd goes absolutely bananas. They head into the second break with momentum on their side.

They play a tough third, back and forth with neither team finding any breathing room.

Mark’s already mentally preparing himself for overtime, when - .

With just under 4 to play, O’Reilly scores, and the air goes out of the building. Mark can _feel_ it deflate around him, can feel the guys all deflating right along with the crowd.

They tell each other all the right things about fighting til the end and it ain’t over til it’s over, they scramble through the last three minutes with single-minded ferocity - but they all know deep down, they just let another one slip through their fingers.

The final horn is just a formality.

-

Mark finds himself inordinately glad to see his dad’s face in the concourse outside the locker room, despite the annoyance he’d felt earlier in the day when he’d checked his phone after morning skate and found the text that said _just arrived at Winnipeg Airport. Surprise!_

He’d had his reasons for putting his parents off about coming out for the opening games. No surprise, those reasons were all related to Nolan.

Mark had wanted privacy during his break between the regular season and the playoffs, wanted freedom to meet up with Nolan if and when he got up the nerve, to spend time with Nolan if things went well and it ended up working that way, without needing to worry about playing host to his family, or offering them explanations for where and how he was spending his time outside the house.

Mark had suggested everyone come to town later in the series, when they’re back in Winnipeg for Game 5. But now suddenly there’s a chance there may not even _be_ a Game 5, and - .

Well.

Mark’s just happier than the thought he’d be, seeing his dad there waiting for him. If he leans a little too hard when his dad hugs him tight, well, his dad’s a big man, and he’s always been able to carry as much weight as Mark, or his siblings, have needed him to, with no complaints.

His dad’s not new to the unpredictability of Mark’s schedule, or the demands of the NHL lifestyle, so when his flight arrived this morning he rented himself a car and made his way to the house, used his key to let himself in, and didn’t even ask where Mark was, just said_ made it to your place. Will I see you before the game or after?_

Mark didn’t respond to that one, any more than he had to the earlier text.

Because before he’d had any inkling his dad was on his way to town, Mark had woken up wrapped around Nolan, woken up for the first time in his life next to someone he could actually imagine wanting to sleep next to every night, to wake up to every day.

He’d woken up to Nolan, hot as an oven up against him, smiling that sleepy little smile back over his shoulder before wriggling purposefully against Mark’s morning erection with a stretch and a yawn. Mark had stayed perfectly still, biting his lip and not commenting on the obvious fact that Nolan was sliding his hand down into his own briefs, that his breathy little panted exhales were coming in time with the movement of his elbow against Mark’s stomach. Instead, Mark chose to suck on the back of Nolan’s neck, bite at his shoulder, grope his chest until Nolan’s panting and whining had turned into guttural grunts, his hips stuttering then going still. Mark immediately made a beeline for the shower and spent a full fifteen minutes working himself through a long, languorous orgasm while replaying the whole experience in his head. They ate breakfast at the kitchen island and talked about their plans for the day and kissed goodbye in the front hall for long enough that Nolan was definitely going to be late for class.

Mark had packed his stuff for the rink with his next twenty four hours already all planned out: morning skate, media, then back to hang out at the condo until game time, napping with Nolan when he got done with class, maybe letting Nolan give him another massage, then taking a nice long hot shower and eating his prepared pre-game meal before he headed over to the arena to try and even up the series.

His post-game plans had optimistically included returning to the condo victorious, to celebrate a win with Nolan and spend another night sleeping next to him before Mark would have to get up Saturday morning to head home, pack for the road, and leave for the airport.

Now, leaning exhausted against his dad’s solid form, down 0-2 and feeling the weight of another lost season bearing down on him, Mark’s plans aren’t quite as clear.

When he finally texted his dad back after lunch, he’d apologized but said he’d already planned to spend the afternoon napping at the condo, but he’d leave tickets at the box office and catch up with him after the game.

When he headed for the arena after dinner, he left Nolan at the condo without mentioning his dad at all, and now Nolan will be expecting him back any time.

Mark feels lost, like his worlds are colliding, and he’s just so freaking _tired_. He has no idea what to do next.

“Tough one, huh kid?” His dad says, and his big hand cups the back of Mark’s head just the same way it has since he was a little boy.

“Thought we had it there for a minute,” Mark grits out, and his dad squeezes tighter, then claps him on the back.

“Can I take you to dinner?”

“I dunno,” Mark shrugs, non-committal. “I don’t think I’m up for it.”

“Home then?” His dad pulls back, looks at him searchingly with those worried-dad eyes.

“Yeah,” Mark sighs. There’s no way around it, no way he can explain staying at the condo without taking his dad with him. He feels trapped; he kind of wants to scream.

“Unless you have other plans,” his dad’s still watching his face, holds up his hands, “if so don’t change ‘em on my account. You know I can see to myself – I’ll make a sandwich and put myself to bed, don’t need you for that.”

He grins, easy-going as always. There’s a reason they tease him by calling him the happiest man in the world, but Mark would never want to be disrespectful of that, never want to take advantage of his dad’s good nature.

Mark’s tongue feels too big for his mouth.

“No plans,” he lies finally, and his dad’s eyes are still on him, too knowing for Mark’s liking, “just have to swing by the condo to pack up the stuff I left, then headed home.”

Mark just knows his dad will want to see the condo, fully expects those to be the next words out of his mouth, but instead he just nods his agreement, obviously deciding to leave it for now.

They agree to meet up at home, and Mark drives his car out of the underground arena parking, across the street, and into the underground condo parking. He makes it upstairs and into the apartment, only to find Nolan at the sink with the dish towel, drying the glasses and utensils they used at lunch. His backpack is stuffed full and zipped up, leaned against the side of the island, and he’s wearing his school clothes from earlier – jeans and his Jets hoodie – instead of the famous blue basketball shorts and too-small, plain white undershirt he’d put on after his post-nap, post-massage shower.

He puts the glasses into the cupboard when Mark comes in, tosses the clean utensils into their drawer then refolds the towel over the oven handle, looking kind of shifty.

“Hey!” he says, like he’s surprised to see Mark there, in his own apartment. “I wasn’t. I mean, I was just cleaning up, then I was gonna head out. I just – I didn’t know if you’d be back.”

“I said I would, didn’t I?” Mark says, and it’s pissier than he meant it. Nolan’s not to blame for any of this – not Mark’s inability to make a decision or a plan or a _freaking goal_ when his team needs it, or – any of it.

Nolan cocks his head to the side, sucks his tongue against his teeth, but doesn’t comment on Mark’s tone.

“I saw your dad on TV. They showed him, when you scored, so.”

He shrugs, taps Mark on the shoulder with his fist.

“Nice snipe, by the way.”

Now it’s Mark’s turn to shrug. He doesn’t feel up for compliments, not when things ended like they did.

“Anyway, I figured you’d want to go hang out with him, so.” He gestures vaguely around the room. “I washed the towels and sheets, and made the bed and -. I think everything’s back where it should be, now.”

He shrugs, and wipes his hands against the thighs of his jeans, the way he does when he’s nervous.

“I was gonna message you and everything,” he mumbles, sheepish, “I just -. I guess I started to feel weird about being here by myself and I just. I dunno.”

Mark feels a tightness in his gut that he knows has nothing to do with the loss, or the impending dread he feels over the way this series has gone so far.

It’s all about Nolan, and the fact that like always, he’s two steps ahead. Without needing to be told, he already knows Mark’s got to kick him out of here and go home, already knew Mark wouldn’t be comfortable leaving any trace of the two of them in the apartment while he’s away.

The thought of Nolan lounging around the condo, watching the game, fulling expecting to spend another night with Mark just like they’d planned, then seeing his dad on the broadcast, putting two and two together, then spending the rest of his night doing laundry and dishes, taking care to put things back exactly the way they were before he got here, like he never even existed in this place – it just.

It makes something tender twist in Mark’s chest, makes him feel like he can barely breathe.

“I wasn’t expecting my family until next week,” is all he manages by way of apology. “Sorry for the change of plans.”

Nolan’s eyes go soft, and his smile is fond.

“Hey, no problem, bud. Parents, right? Anyway, I get it’s a busy time of year for you. Not enough Scheif to go around, eh?”

He’s not wrong, is the thing. Mark leaves in the morning for St. Louis, he’s gone for five days, and when he gets back into town his whole family will be here – parents, siblings, the whole nine - for Game 5.

If there even_ is_ a Game 5.

But whether there is or isn’t, Mark still isn’t sure when he’ll be able to see Nolan again. When they’ll be able to be alone together again, and he just.

He doesn’t know what to _do_ with that.

He wants to not care about it so much, to not worry about it, not have it taking up space in his brain. In this exact moment he wants to just - not want Nolan anymore; it seems so much easier that way.

Or maybe what he really wants is to just not care what his dad might think if he doesn’t come home – that would work too.

He mostly wants to not keep secrets and not have to divide his time between parallel universes and to be able to see his dad _and_ Nolan but – there’s no way.

He wants to sleep for a few days and wake up whenever the heck he wakes up.

He wants to win _one freaking hockey game_.

Mark can feel himself starting to spin out, his fears and frustrations all swirling in his brain, his heart starting to race. He forces himself to take a few yoga breaths, closes his eyes for a few beats.

“Sorry,” Nolan says, when Mark’s eyes open again. As if he’s done something wrong, which is -.

“No,” Mark reaches for him, pulls him closer, “don’t be sorry. I just wish things could be – different. Easier. Less confusing and just, like. Simple.”

He shakes his head, frustrated, so hopeless when it comes to making his jumbled feelings come out as, like, intelligible words. Instead of trying any more, he just pulls Nolan closer still, and kisses him.

Nolan lets him, for a while, before he pulls away.

“It sounds like maybe,” he says, and then coughs and looks at the ground. 

“Shit. It sounds like maybe now’s not really a good time? For trying this whole – whatever? Thing? I dunno, I just – you look super stressed, and I think, like. Maybe I should like, back off and give you some space, y’know?”

He looks up, eyes wide and face pink and Mark wants to laugh, at the sheer absurdity of the idea. At the very notion that Nolan is in some way crowding him, as if Mark didn’t make all the decisions to put himself in this place, in this predicament. At the very idea that Mark might just want to _give this up_, after all the knots he’s tied himself into just to get it this far.

But there’s still the voice in there, somewhere down deep, that’s saying maybe Nolan’s not totally wrong, that maybe giving this up is _exactly_ what he should do. That maybe then he could focus, and play better, and _win._

“I don’t think -.” Mark shakes his head, tries to sound as sure as he can. “I mean, that’s not what I’m trying to say, I just –. I’m just not sure when I’ll be _able_ to see you again. And that sucks. And I wish it wasn’t so – complicated or whatever. But none of it means I don’t still _want_ to. Okay?”

Nolan gives him a long look, appraising from under his dark lashes, then the corner of his mouth quirks up in his begrudging little closed-mouth smirk.

“Okay. So, like. I guess just – don’t sweat it, yeah? If we’re good, and it’s just like, the timing sucks, that’s cool. We’ll figure it out, but like – I need you focused, eh? You gotta get these two in St. Louis, so.”

He shrugs, taps Mark’s temple with his index finger.

“Head on straight, Scheif. Go win me some games, and I’ll see you whenever you can. Right?”

Mark huffs a broken little laugh, wishing it could be that easy.

“Right,” he nods, because he doesn’t have the heart to disagree. “For sure.”

-

Mark leaves his dad at his house and heads to the airport Saturday morning.

Sunday night in St. Louis, the Jets finally pull off a win. It’s a big one in more ways than one, 6-3 and never really in doubt, and even though Mark only had one assist, even though he can’t shake that feeling that he should be doing more, doing _better_ than he is, at least they can all finally get a peaceful night’s sleep.

Monday they skate in the morning and talk to the media, then spend the day playing cards and video games, hanging out around the hotel, feeling relatively loose all things considered. Mark checks in with his family throughout the day – now that Game 5 is a go, they’re all finalizing their plans to arrive in Winnipeg on Wednesday – from the common room the team has set up for the guys, but waits until he’s alone in his room after dinner to check in with Nolan.

It’s been three days now with no sleepy-eyed good morning selfies, no random pictures of Nolan’s questionable dining hall lunches or the bird’s nest on the windowsill outside his dorm room or the cute dogs he sees around campus, and definitely no teasing videos from the gym, or the showers. They’ve messaged back and forth periodically, mostly about hockey, but Mark can tell Nolan is stepping back on purpose, giving him space regardless of what Mark may have told him the last time they saw each other.

He doesn’t really want it, but he appreciates the thought.

He takes a picture in his hotel ensuite, shirt hiked up under one arm to show the mottled skin of his torso over his ribs on the right side. He captions it _Pietrangelo_ and pushes send.

NoPats98: _Bet he looks worse_

GoPats93: _Nah, you saw, it was barely a scuffle. You know I don’t fight._

NoPats98: _Such a good boy_ 😇

GoPats93: _You know better than anyone that’s not true._

NoPats98: _Oh yeah, prove it_ 😈

Mark can feel his face heat up, his heart rate speed. He already knows where this is going, and he’s - . Well. His defenses are pretty much completely depleted, and he just.

He doesn’t feel like stopping it.

GoPats93: _How?_

NoPats98: _You know how_

Mark blows out a breath, rubs absent-mindedly at his dick. It’s already thickening up, already interested in the proceedings. Still, he feels compelled to play coy a little longer, at least pretend he’s _thinking about_ not doing what he already knows he’s gonna do.

GoPats93: _I really don’t._

NoPats98: 🙄

NoPats98: 🍆

NoPats98: _put up or shut up, hot shot_

Mark’s laugh comes out embarrassingly breathy and strung out in the silence of his empty hotel room. Considering the stuff he’s done just in the last month in service to the whole Nolan Thing – entering into a thirty year mortgage on a piece of prime Winnipeg real estate, for example - a dick pic seems kind of tame, actually. Like some quaint, old-fashioned gesture no more scandalous than sending flowers, or writing a thank you note.

It takes a few minutes to get the lighting right and the pose right. Then another few minutes to do a little manscaping to make sure everything is displayed to its best advantage. Then another few minutes of looking at some of his favorite Nolan videos, to achieve maximum, uh. _Mass._

When he finally feels ready, he snaps a bunch of pics and scrolls through them appraisingly, choosing the one he wants. Then he deletes all the others first, just to make sure he sends the right one. He captions it: _inspired by my favorite video series, shower scenes 1 - 4._

His face is burning when he pushes send. He puts the phone upside down on the countertop, puts the hand towel on top of it, and turns on the shower.

By the time he’s done in there, there’s a 5th installment of _shower scenes_ waiting in his inbox, and unlike the ones before it, this one includes a money shot.

Mark groans and scrubs at his crotch with his wet towel while he watches, squeezing the base of his shaft as it throbs valiantly.

He’s not quite young enough to get hard again that fast, but he’s not quite old enough not to give it a try.

-

Game 4 is another squeaker, scoreless until the 3rd. Tarasenko puts one in just a few seconds into the final period, and Mark can feel the whole team gripping their sticks a little tighter, feel the energy of the boys buckling down, focusing in. None of them is going to let this one go without a fight.

Despite the score, Mark has that feeling, like this game is still theirs for the taking.

Just a few minutes later, he scores to tie it up, and it feels inevitable.

The assist he has to Kyle in OT for the game winner feels just as inevitable.

And suddenly, just like that they’re heading back to home ice, all tied up 2-2.

-

They get into Winnipeg at noon on Wednesday. Mark’s mom, dad, sister, brother, and sister-in-law are all at his house to greet him. He’s got plenty of room at the house for all of them, even if Copper stays at home, but usually when there’s a house full of Scheifele’s he makes himself scarce, stays with one of the boys or with his girl, if he’s got one.

Of course they all want to see the condo, so Mark takes them over in the evening on the way out to dinner. He worries the whole way that there’ll be – _something_ \- some tell-tale sign of Nolan left in the place that will somehow arouse suspicion, even though he knows that’s ridiculous. The most Nolan’s ever brought over is a change of clothes and his laptop, and those all went home with him when he left. Plus, Mark gave the place a once over after Nolan left on Friday, the neatly made bed and the pristinely clean bathrooms and kitchen, and everything looked just the way it had the first time Mark walked in after Melissa’s team finished. It looked like a hotel no one had ever stayed in, perfectly non-descript and bland, just the way Mark wants it.

Everyone agrees it’s a perfectly nice place, and that Mark was so smart to buy it.

That’s pretty much it.

They go on to dinner, the condo forgotten, and Mark breathes a deep sigh of relief.

The next night, they go up 2-0 in the first in front of their hopeful home crowd, then give up 3 goals in the third and the whole game along with them. Mark is minus two on the night, nothing to show for his bruises and his exhaustion but the stick he broke over his knee in the tunnel on the way back to the room.

He can feel it slipping away.

-

Mark says goodbye to his family Friday morning and leaves for the airport. They say all the expected things about being there when he gets back for Game 7, but the whole flight to St. Louis he’s queasy, feeling of dread sitting heavy in his stomach. He’d never say it out loud, but he doesn’t have any faith there’s going to be a Game 7.

Something feels off, with the team, with him. He tries not to think it’s because he’s got too much on his plate, tries not to second guess the choices he’s made, but he can’t help chastising himself a little, can’t keep from asking himself what the heck would have been so freaking hard about waiting until the playoffs were over to get into the whole Nolan Thing.

Of course he doesn’t really need to ask, he already knows the answer.

If he’d waited, he’d _still be waiting_. Waiting to meet Nolan, to see Nolan in person, to know what it sounds like when he laughs, see how blue his eyes and how pink his cheeks really are, in living color. But also, to know what it feels like to kiss someone he really _wants_ to kiss, to taste and smell and feel someone he _really_ _wants_ in his arms, and, well. He didn’t _want to_ wait – not anymore.

Mark feels like he’s been waiting for someone like Nolan - for everything he is in his own right and for what he represents in the abstract, as well - for his whole life, and he was sick and _freaking_ tired of waiting.

Mark was too impatient, too needy, too eager and infatuated to make the hard choice, the _wise_ choice – he sees that now. Alone in his hotel room, tossing and turning and not sleeping, he crawls out of bed at 2 a.m. and gets down on his knees.

It’s been a long time since he’s prayed this way, prostrate and desperate, reminding himself that God doesn’t make bargains and he doesn’t change the past. No matter how much Mark might wish it, God’s not going to snap his fingers and let Mark wake up back in March, before he bought the condo, so he can make a more measured, more careful choice.

All he can do is apologize and beg forgiveness, for letting himself get carried away. For letting his heart and yes, his hormones, get the better of him. For plunging ahead instead of being cautious and guarded like he typically always is.

He keeps praying, waiting for that sense of peace it brings lately, but he can’t will that to happen any more than he can will the puck into the back of the net, despite his best efforts.

He doesn’t feel any better, when he climbs back under the covers.

He wakes up feeling lethargic and strung out, and in no way ready to play a game with his season on the line. Even Nolan’s good morning selfie, shirtless and squinty-eyed and sleep-rumpled, can barely drag a grin out of him.

The dread in his stomach feels like a brick, weighing him down.

Schwartz has a hatty for the Blues before the Jets even get on the board; Mark has more time on ice than any player on his team, and all he can manage to give them is a faceoff win percentage in the 30’s, a negative overall +/-, and an unceremonious first round exit.

-

The flight home is silent as a tomb. They land in the middle of the night, all of them emotionally and physically wrecked, but before they deplane Wheels puts them all on notice that there will be a mandatory team outing for dinner and after dinner activities, so to rest up.

Mark sheds his suit in pieces between his bedroom door and his bed, crashes face down and doesn’t move for 8 hours. It’s only his mom knocking on the door frame of his open door that wakes him around noon, letting him know they’ve all gone ahead and changed their flights, that they’re flying home later in the day and asking if he wants to come down for lunch before they go.

“We just thought we’d get out of your way,” she says, coming over to sit on the side of the bed, running her hand over his hair like he’s still a little kid, sympathy written all over her face. “We know you’ve got end of the year stuff to do here, and. Well. You’ll be home for the summer in what, probably just a week or two, I guess?”

“I guess,” Mark says into his pillow, monotone and sulky, but he drags himself out of bed and into a quick shower. He sees he’s got notifications, but he doesn’t even unlock his phone. He’s just not up for it yet.

He eats lunch with the family and hugs his parents and sister goodbye when they leave for the airport in his dad’s rental car. His brother and sister-in-law are on a later flight, and Mark knows that was orchestrated by his family on purpose, that his brother has been designated for Mark Duty.

Once the rest of the family is gone, his sister-in-law makes herself scarce upstairs, claiming she’s got a lot of packing to do, but Mark knows - she’s just giving him time with his brother to mourn the loss of his season with a couple of beers and an appropriately masculine expression of grief-through-video-game-violence.

It does make him feel moderately better, at least for the duration of the time he’s actively killing zombies.

Word goes out to the team chat that dinner’s at 8, so Mark goes upstairs to get dressed, drops his brother and sister-in-law at the airport, then heads into the city to meet the boys.

He has a steak and a giant sweet potato, _with_ the cinnamon-sugar butter that he usually insists they leave off, thank you very much. What the heck difference does it make, at this point?

He has a glass of wine with dinner, then another after that, then a beer at the bar they head to down the street. Then Wheels buys the boys a round of shots, and Mark and Buff feel compelled, as team leadership, to follow suit. After that someone else steps up, then someone else, and it’s around then that things start to go a little off the rails.

Mark still hasn’t opened any of his notifications, or responded to any messages since before the game last night. He sits on a stool at the bar and replies to a few texts, ignores a few more before he casually opens up Insta and thumbs over to his GoPats93 account like that wasn’t the very first thing he wanted to do. There are two messages from Nolan when Mark finally looks:

_Really sorry, bud. That sucks so hard. Keep your head up._

That one’s from late last night, right after the game no doubt. And, there’s another one below that with a picture, and Mark knows he shouldn’t look, not here. He knows he should just put it away, he really does, but –

Instead he finishes his drink, then he looks at it anyway.

_Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help cheer you up_ 😉

That once came around 11 am.

Nolan is in his bed, but it’s not his usual good morning selfie with his head on his pillow and his hair all rumpled, face sleepy and soft.

In this one he’s lying on his belly, phone held somewhere around his left shoulder so the camera’s looking down his back toward the foot of the bed. The blankets are shoved down around the tops of his thighs, exposing most of his butt.

He’s completely nude.

Mark’s pulse races suddenly – this is why he doesn’t open Nolan’s messages in public, he should _know better_ \- and he pushes the phone against his chest to hide the screen. He cuts his eyes around, a little frantic, but no one’s looking at him. Wheels is on one side of him, back leaned against the bar, and Troubs is on the other side in the exact same position, both engaged in the cross-talk and increasingly loud, increasingly drunk conversation going on behind Mark’s back.

Mark slides off the stool and down the hall to the washroom, where he locks himself in a stall and stares at Nolan’s photo for a few minutes, until he has to press the heel of his hand against the crotch of his jeans just to relieve some of the pressure. Past the enticement of the pale length of Nolan’s body and all that exposed skin, past the navy blue of the duvet covering his legs and the end of the bed, Mark’s poster is still on the wall beyond, and he just.

He _wants_.

_Sorry, crappy day_, he types, _but tough to feel too bad looking at this_.

He bites his lip, rubs idly at his crotch some more, and looks at his watch. It’s past 1 a.m. on a Sunday, Nolan has class tomorrow, and – Mark should just leave it at that, for tonight, he knows, but.

But maybe Nolan will be asleep already, and it won’t matter. Mark can just leave it up to divine intervention – either Nolan’s asleep and that’s that, or he’s up and. 

Just, freaking - .

_Screw it_. 

Mark’s mad and sad and drunk and – _something_ – and he’s in the mood to let the chips fall where they may.

He adds to the message,

_Out with the boys now but heading to condo after last call. You should come by if you’re still up._

He pushes send, then schedules an Uber pickup for 2 a.m.

-

Mark has maybe not stopped to consider how drunk he really is until he opens the door for Nolan, who takes one look at him and laughs.

“Whoa,” he says, as he hangs his coat and his backpack in the front closet, “Mark Scheifele, loaded as hell. Never would have thought I’d see the day, bud.”

Mark gives him a probably- exaggerated scowl with a loud _pffft_, like this is a ridiculous accusation, which only makes Nolan laugh again.

“Oh, okay hot shot,” he grins as he backs Mark against the wall next to the guest room door, “exactly how much have you had to drink tonight, then?”

His hands are on Mark’s hips, and he’s crowding in close - bodies not quite touching, mouths not quite touching. Mark still isn’t sure what it is that always makes Nolan smell so, _so_ good.

“I dunno,” Mark says, non-committal, “a couple I guess.”

“A couple, you guess,” Nolan repeats softly, little grin still in place. “Right.”

His nose brushes Mark’s, and Mark just – he fists his hand in the front of Nolan’s t-shirt and pulls, gets his body flush up against Mark’s, close and hot where Mark can nuzzle into his neck and suck in another long, deep breath of the good stuff. He opens his mouth against Nolan’s throat, head swimming with it, and sucks, hard and emphatic.

“Holy shit,” Nolan breathes, and his fingers tighten on Mark’s hips.

“Missed you so much,” Mark breathes right back, then he slides out from between Nolan and the wall, backs into the open bedroom door right next to him, and pulls Nolan with him, tumbles them both sideways onto the guest bed.

“Yeah?” Nolan sounds surprised, at that – more surprised than he should be, definitely, given how much Mark thinks about him, how badly Mark wants him, just, all the freaking time.

Given how Mark may have, possibly, _probably_, jeopardized his routine and his focus and his whole freaking season just to get closer to Nolan.

“Yeah,” Mark confirms, lips against Nolan’s ear, “so much.”

“Fuck, Scheif,” Nolan pants, “you too – God, just -. _Yeah_.”

Nolan’s half on top of him on the bed, legs tangled together, and Mark only has to shift a little to get them lined up, so he can get his legs on either side of Nolan, get his thighs around the outsides of Nolan’s so that Nolan’s hips slot right down into the vee of Mark’s legs, hot and heavy and so freaking perfect.

Nolan lets out a huffed little grunt at the new, more direct angle of the contact, and his mouth covers Mark’s, warm and wet and a little sloppy, and Mark feels wild with it, with the rush of adrenaline and whatever it is that makes him just – crazy about this guy.

His hands slide down Nolan’s back, over his butt until Mark can anchor his hands there and squeeze, can hitch Nolan even tighter up against him.

Mark groans, and Nolan gasps.

“Jesus, holy shit,” Nolan pants, and his hips grind down against Mark’s with purpose. 

Mark’s fingers flex instinctively, gripping Nolan tighter, pulling down while he rolls his hips up. Mark’s blood feels fizzy, like he can feel it hissing through his veins, little sparkling points of pleasure racing up and down inside the individual fibers that make up his muscle and bone, the fabric of his body. He could get lost in it – _wants_ to get lost in it. He’s tried of thinking about it, tired of holding it off, tired of fighting it. He already threw his whole season away because of it, at this point he might as well just go ahead and let himself _have_ it.

“This is _definitely_,” Nolan mumbles into his mouth, one hand skating up under Mark’s t-shirt, “against the rules, all this horizontal kissing.” He grins against Mark’s lips, cheeky.

“We should probably sit up, huh?”

“Nuh-uh,” Mark whines, petulant, and moves one hand from Nolan’s butt up to the back of his neck, crushes their mouths together. “Stay, c’mon.”

He doesn’t want to sit up, he doesn’t want to stop. He just wants to feel something besides _bad_ for a while, and what’s so wrong with that?

Nolan feels so good, and he makes _Mark_ feel so good. That’s all he cares about, right now.

Nolan stays, keeps kissing him and rutting against him, his fingers spread wide against the skin of Mark’s rib cage, panting and groaning into Mark’s mouth until - .

“Okay, shit, okay,” he says, and suddenly lifts himself up on his elbows, taking most of his weight off Mark. He tucks his face against Mark’s neck and breathes heavy.

“Sorry, I just, I can’t, or I’m gonna. Y’know. I gotta stop.”

Mark lets out a frustrated groan and rolls his hips, squirming to try and find that hot, delicious friction from just a moment ago, but Nolan’s holding his body just out of reach, just far enough away that Mark can’t get the contact he needs.

“No, c’mon, it’s fine, it’s good,” he says, “doesn’t matter, just, c’mon, please.” He’s pulling at Nolan’s hips, trying to tug him back down, but Nolan just kisses his neck one last time, then rolls to the side, then up to a sitting position.

“You’re drunk, Mark,” he says, and his voice is so – something. Soft and. _Pitying_, and Mark just.

“_What? _I’m_ not._” Mark insists, groping for Nolan’s body, his hand, something. “I said it’s okay, it’s okay, c’mon.”

He finds Nolan’s arm, only to have it pulled from his grasp.

“Hey, Scheif, just relax, come on,” Nolan says, “you just had too much to drink, and that’s cool, but we both know you’ll regret it if things get. Whatever – too _heated _– tonight.”

“I _won’t_,” Mark stubbornly maintains, “I want to. You know I want to, I’ve _always_ wanted to, I just, I’m so _freaking_ _sick _of this.”

He feels suddenly, humiliatingly close to tears, and his head feels all fuzzy, like his thoughts won’t line up correctly so he can just _explain_ himself, and it’s all just. It’s too much.

He slaps both hands over his face and breathes into his palms, trying to lose that weird, woozy, off-balance feeling, like the bed is tilting from side to side.

He hears Nolan say _hey, it’s okay_ in that same soft voice, feels Nolan’s hand on his ankle, petting lightly, and it’s just – it’s the last straw, it’s more tenderness than he can stand. He’s going to cry, and Nolan’s going to see, and he just – can’t.

“I shouldn’t have,” he mumbles into his hands. “Sorry, it’s just – you’re right, I drank too much and I should never have - . I shouldn’t have dragged you over here; you have class, and. You should probably go.”

“Dude, it’s _fine_,” Nolan says. “You didn’t drag me anywhere - I definitely wanted to come. I still want to _stay_, unless. I mean, unless you really don’t want me to.”

“Yeah,” Mark says, still into his hands, voice too high pitched. “Yeah, sorry, I really - . Just, maybe it’s better if you just go.”

He sits up suddenly, and way too fast. His head spins, and he lurches to one side.

“Whoa, hey,” Nolan wraps an arm around his middle, helps him stand, steadies him. “Just slow down, okay?”

“No, _don’t_.”

He wrenches himself out of Nolan’s reach, and his voice comes out in a low, cut-off growl, which just makes it all the more embarrassing. He knows he’s over-reacting, too defensive, but he’s just - . He’s mortified, by his own behavior and his own emotions, and the fact that he suddenly has an overwhelming feeling that he very well might vomit right here in the hallway of this stupid condo he had no business buying in the first place.

“Just, please,” he says, “I’m really sorry, this is all my fault, but. This whole thing was just – a mistake. I’m sorry, really, but - . Please, you should go.”

“Shit, Mark, come on,” Nolan says from behind him, voice suddenly small. “Are you for real right now?”

“I’ll order you an Uber,” Mark manages to get out, before the wave of nausea overwhelms him, “I just need you to go, I have to -.”

Then he stumbles into the guest bathroom and slams the door.

When he wakes up on the tile floor at 6 a.m. and hauls himself up and into the kitchen for some water, Nolan’s nowhere to be found.


	2. Chapter 2

“Your mom says half an hour ‘til dinner.”

Mark looks up to see his dad standing over him, holding out a bottle of smart water.

“Thanks, dad.”

Mark takes the bottle, cracks the lid off and takes a swig. Scout comes galloping back up the gentle slope of the back yard and drops his slobbery ball between Mark’s feet. Mark picks it up and flings it back down the hill to the back fence, and Scout races off after, tail waving like a flag as he goes.

His dad groans as he lowers himself down onto the back steps next to Mark.

“Your old man’s getting to be an old man, eh?” He says, and shoulders into Mark with a grin.

“Nah, come on,” Mark huffs, shrugging. “You’ve got a few good years left, at least, before we put you in the home.”

His dad lets out a loud _ha_, and wraps his hand around the back of Mark’s neck with a squeeze.

Scout drops the ball again, and Mark flings it back down the hill.

They sit in silence for a while, watching Scout chase the ball with just as much enthusiasm, time after time after time, never seeming to tire at all.

“Y’know, kid,” his dad says after a bit, and Mark holds in a sigh. He had a feeling something was coming.

He’s been home for weeks now, moping around his own house and, occasionally, when summoned to make a command appearance, coming over to his parents’ house and bringing his moping with him. Of course they’ve noticed – were probably hoping his kid’s camp back in Winnipeg last week would cheer him up, finally, and when that didn’t work, well. He’s sure they’re worried.

“I know it’s your job, and I’m not trying to say it’s not important. You have every right to be disappointed, to be upset with the way things ended this year. It’s good to be introspective, to think about what you could have done differently or better, to try and learn from that. That’s all – those are healthy responses to disappointment and to falling short of goals you set for yourself. But.”

Mark does sigh, when he hears the _but_; his dad just claps a hand down on his shoulder and goes right on anyway.

“But I don’t need to tell you, keeping some perspective is important, too. Remembering there’s a greater purpose for your life than winning hockey games, or chasing trophies - that’s just as important.”

“Yes, sir,” Mark nods without looking over, feeling his throat go tight.

It’s like the dizzy, confused, overwhelmed feeling he had that last night at the condo somehow stuck with him, chased him all the way from Winnipeg to Kitchener at the end of the season, back to Winnipeg and back to Kitchener again after his camp. It clung to him from April into May and all the way through June, and now July’s almost here, with no end in sight. He still feels like the ground isn’t quite steady under his feet, like his emotions are all too close to the surface, too obviously evident on his face. He still feels wobbly, still somehow internally off-kilter all these weeks after the fact.

He understands why his family has been concerned; usually Mark is pathologically future-focused, always moving forward, not one to get hung up on the disappointments of the past. He’s typically quick to bounce back from a failure, quick to see the learning opportunities in defeat and the silver linings of every setback.

It’s not like him to carry this with him, the way he’s been doing, but his parents know him too well. Mark knows if he looks at his dad, lets him get a good look into Mark’s eyes, it won’t take him long to figure out that the weight on Mark’s shoulders isn’t all about losing a playoff series.

If he hasn’t figured it out, already.

So Mark throws the ball back down the hill, keeps his eyes fixed on Scout’s hot pursuit of it rather than meeting his dad’s eyes.

“I’ll, uh.” He clears his throat, tries not to mumble. “I’ll snap out of it soon, I’m sure. Just taking a little longer than usual, I guess.”

His dad squeezes his shoulder again. Mark can feel the concerned look, uncomfortably warm and close, scrutinizing his face.

“I know it was a rough end to the season,” his dad sounds tentative as he goes on, “but this feels like, maybe. Well. Just – if there’s anything else going on, anything you want to talk about – you know I’m always here to listen. Always, Mark. It’s in the job description.”

Mark clenches his jaw shut against the bubbling, almost overwhelming urge to give in to that offer.

The truth is Mark has never kept secrets from his parents. He was that kid who really did tell his parents everything, the kid whose mom and dad really were his best friends and confidantes.

Of every important thing there is to know about Mark, about his life, there’s only one thing he’s never told them, one thing they don’t know.

That thing was, for years, a shameful secret he kept locked away and unacknowledged even to himself, hidden behind a barred door, cloaked in darkness and fear and the certainty that _no one_ could ever know it, least of all his parents.

But as Mark has slowly brought it out of that metaphorical hiding place inside his own mind, as he’s slowly stopped thinking of it as something to be kept separate from his life, separate from _himself_, and instead as something that’s going to _have_ to be integrated, for his own sanity – as something he has no choice but to reconcile both internally and, at least to some degree, within the wider circle of his life - it’s stopped feeling so shameful, so insurmountable. Perhaps not-so-coincidentally, the less fear and shame Mark feels over it, the less natural it feels to keep it secret.

Keeping the secret has always felt like self-preservation, an imperative, not even a question. But now, it’s starting to feel just the opposite, somehow – like cowardice and lying by omission.

Like now that it’s a part of him, part of the truth of his life that he acknowledges to himself and, so far, exactly one other person, it’s feeling more and more like he’s got to share it with some other people, too, or else be willing to put more distance between himself and the people he can’t share it with.

He doesn’t know how to even begin to go about that, but this is his _dad_. And what Mark does know, beyond fear and beyond excuses, what he knows _for sure_, way down in his bones, is that no one loves him more, or has his best interests more at heart.

That no one’s ever forgiven him more times, more thoroughly and whole-heartedly, and no one’s ever given him better advice.

He takes a shuddery breath, lets his eyes close for a moment, just to steady himself.

“I. It’s just,” Mark manages to choke out, but his throat already feels thick, pressure behind his eyes threatening tears, and he has to clench his jaw closed again, breathe deep against the emotion.

His dad just squeezes Mark’s shoulder again, stays close and silent, waiting.

Mark blows out another breath, steels himself.

“I’m not,” he starts, then Scout drops the ball at his feet and he takes the opportunity to breathe again while he tosses it, to think for just a few more seconds before he goes on.

“It’s not just the season,” he says, finally, still staring out over the lawn. “It’s – I was. I was sort of - seeing someone, also, for the past few months, and I guess. I’m not really sure where that. I’m not sure where it stands, now.”

“Wow. A few months, huh?” Mark knows his dad well enough to know, his surprise is feigned. He’s obviously known something was up, probably knew when he made his surprise visit before Game 2 and Mark acted all freaked out and weird. Honestly, he probably knew back on the dad’s trip in January, when Mark was glued to his phone the way he usually never would be, probably saw the giddy, stupid infatuation all over Mark’s face the whole time, while Mark was busy thinking he was so inconspicuous about checking his messages constantly.

His dad’s just been biding his time, probably, giving Mark a chance to come to him.

“You never mentioned it,” his dad points out, voice gentle; it’s not accusatory, not demanding, but there’s definitely a question there. A months-long relationship is just not the kind of thing Mark would ever have failed to mention to his parents, historically.

“I wasn’t sure,” Mark shrugs, not sure where to go from here. There’s only so much he can say, without lying and without giving himself away. He definitely doesn’t want to do the former, but he’s not sure he’s ready to do the latter, either.

“I guess I wasn’t sure if. It’s just. It wasn’t someone I thought you and mom would. _Like_, or - . Approve of, really, I guess.”

“I doubt very much that’s true,” his dad says, and Mark grits his teeth. He hopes the shadowy evening light under the back porch awning will hide the flush he feels creeping into his face. “I’ve never known you to suffer fools. Or to be a poor judge of character, for that matter.”

“I guess.” Mark tosses the ball again, and keeps his eyes on the dog like his life depends on it.

“Someone in Winnipeg, I assume, so the – I mean, is it the distance that’s the hang up, now?”

“The distance is making it more complicated, I guess - but also, it’s. I kind of acted like a jerk, honestly, after we lost, so the way we left things wasn’t the greatest, and. I guess I’m just letting it bother me more than I should.”

“Well,” his dad says, thoughtful, “in my experience, if I’m that bothered, it’s usually because I behaved badly, especially to someone I really care about. Even if you were a jerk, if you apologize sincerely and mean it, that’ll usually make you feel better.”

“Yeah,” Mark shrugs, noncommittal. “I mean, I did. Apologize – _a lot_ \- but. I still feel like. It’s not the same, since then, and. I’m afraid maybe I broke something that can’t be fixed, you know?”

Scout drops the ball at his feet again, and Mark throws it again, grateful for the continued distraction. His chest feels too tight to breathe, much less speak, but.

“I guess. I thought I was sure what I wanted, but after the way the season ended I felt like maybe. Maybe my focus wasn’t where it should have been, like maybe. Like that relationship was a distraction and I shouldn’t. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to try to have both, you know, hockey and also - . Or maybe it just wasn’t the right time, or the right fit. Or something.”

His dad is silent for a long stretch, watching Mark fling the ball two, then three more times before he speaks again.

“Mark,” he says, and the sound of his voice makes Mark look over at him for the first time, startled. He sounds – a little choked up, and holy crap, Mark’s emotions are way too close to the surface already, he definitely won’t be able to keep it together, if his dad doesn’t.

“Son,” he starts again, sounding a little more steady, more like the dad voice Mark knows and expects. “You’ve always had a bit of tunnel vision. Always so goal-oriented, so driven; always had high standards for yourself, and that’s fine, that’s good. We’re proud of how hard you work, of the way you conduct your life, and of the success you’ve had. But as far as we’re aware, you haven’t had much of a personal life, or had much fun at all - certainly haven’t been _dating_ at all, since Dara. I guess I just mean, you keep yourself on an awfully tight leash.

“And we know – you’ve always. I guess - _casual_ is not a word I’d use to describe you, in any capacity. You don’t do things by half; you never have. You were never impetuous or careless, even as a little kid. You were always deliberate, always considerate, always thought things through. We never had to teach you to look before you leap, it was already in here, from birth.”

He grins as he taps on Mark’s temple, but his eyes look a little watery. Mark bites the inside of his cheek, blinks fast against the pressure behind his own eyes.

“But once you’d decided – that was it, you were all in. That’s always how you’ve been. Opening your life up to include things other than just hockey, to have relationships outside of hockey, it’s not a _bad thing_. In fact I’d argue that it’s impossible to have a full and happy life, not to mention be a well-rounded human being, without doing just that. So I don’t think you need to worry about a relationship that’s obviously important to you being a distraction. I think the fact that this relationship _is_ obviously important to you, tells me that you _should _try, that it _is_ the right time. And that it’s a good thing.”

He slides his arm around Mark’s shoulder, pulls him in close. He presses a kiss to the side of Mark’s head, and Mark bites down so hard he tastes blood. He knows he’s not going to be able to keep his voice steady, he knows, but he has to ask –

“But what if. Dad.”

He stops, sucks in a deep, shuddering breath.

“What if the person I choose isn’t. What if - if they’re not what. Not the person you would want for me?”

He knows as soon as he declines to use a female pronoun, especially considering he’s already been so cagey about this mystery relationship, he’s basically just outed himself. His dad’s not an idiot, and he’s not going to miss all the things Mark’s _not_ saying. But his dad’s arm only tightens around his shoulder. Mark can hear his breath catch, then a long exhale in the silence before he finally speaks.

“Just tell me one thing,” he says, and Mark can hear the tears in his voice, but his face is still pressed against the side of Mark’s head so at least Mark doesn’t have to _see_ them. “Have you prayed about it? I mean down on your knees, with an open heart, with no agenda of your own, have you prayed for guidance, prayed to know the right thing?”

“I’ve - . Dad, it’s been. For _years_ I’ve been. I’ve _begged - _.”

Mark breaks off on a hitched breath, tries to get a hold of himself, but he can feel a wave coming, feel it welling up inside.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps, mortified, then he turns his face into his dad’s shoulder and cries like he hasn’t in years, like he hasn’t since he was a little kid.

His dad just wraps both arms around him, rocks him a little back and forth and whispers _I know, I know, it’s okay, I know_ into his hair, lets him cry.

“Oh man, geez,” Mark says, when he can finally breathe, wiping his snotty nose on his shirt sleeve, “sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to be so -,” but his dad cuts him off.

“No, hey, what are Dads for, huh?” He gives Mark another little shake, along with a sniffling smile, and Mark looks down at his own knees. Scout’s sitting there, ears up on high alert, watching the scene with concern; his forgotten ball lies in the grass next to Mark’s shoe.

“Listen to me,” his dad says, ducking his head to make Mark look him in the eye. “_Listen_. You’re a grown man; you’re a _good_ man. It’s your life, and your decisions are your own, just like your relationship with God is your own. No one – not me, not your mother, not anyone else – can tell you what you’re meant to do with your life. That’s between you and your Creator, and we’ll trust that whatever choices you make, they’ll be the right ones for you. We’ve always trusted that. So I don’t want you to be afraid, not about that, not about us.”

He squeezes one more time, knocks his knee against Mark’s.

“There’s fear that keeps you alive, and fear that keeps you from really living. The first kind you should listen to, the second kind you shouldn’t. I know it’s hard to know the difference sometimes, but if you listen to what’s in here,” he taps Mark’s chest softly, “I promise you’ll find the right answer. I promise, okay?”

“Okay,” Mark nods, shaky. “Okay.”

“Okay,” his dad confirms, and claps him on the back one more time. He lets out a deep sigh, and Mark follows suit. He feels like a 10 ton weight has been lifted off his shoulders, somehow, even though he really, barely said anything at all. He scrubs his fingers through the thick fur around Scout’s neck, tries to get his sniffling under control and his breathing back to normal.

“Okay,” his dad says one more time, and gives Mark a once over, eyes narrowed and appraising. Finally he gives a little nod, apparently satisfied with what he sees.

“Now help pull me up from here before my knees are stuck at this angle for good.”

-

_Let me know when you’re around._

Mark sends the DM then opens his Sudoku app, just killing time and waiting, feeling fidgety and stupid for it.

It’s not that he hasn’t been in touch with Nolan at all since the last time they saw each other, or anything like that. Mark messaged him the very next day, actually, apologizing profusely for his behavior the night before. Nolan seemed to accept it readily enough, assuring Mark that it was fine, and that everyone acts like an idiot sometimes when they’re drunk, and Mark had felt marginally, barely, a tiny bit better.

But he’d still packed his stuff and left town 4 days later, too embarrassed and indecisive, to unsure of the right thing and too afraid of risking the wrong thing, to face Nolan in person before he went, and.

Well.

It’s been impossible to miss the fact that that things have been markedly different between them, since then.

For one, there’ve been no more good morning selfies from Nolan, no more flirty messages or sexy videos. There’s been barely any conversation at all, actually - more like just a string of messages from Mark about the playoffs and Nolan’s finals and Mark’s offseason workouts and his parents’ dog, and although Nolan always responds, always replies to Mark’s inane comments and answers his pathetic, pointless little questions, that’s all there is to it, now. Nolan doesn’t make any effort to extend the conversation, doesn’t bring up any topics of his own or share anything at all, really, unless it’s in response to a specific inquiry from Mark.

Mark knows Nolan’s living back at home for the summer, only because he asked one day, _how’s dorm life during summer term, less crowded?_ Mark knows Nolan is working two jobs, both his regular lifeguarding gig and also as a research assistant for one of his professors who got some big new three-year grant, only because he asked _so are you in school this summer, or working or what?_ He knows the grant is to study various therapies to help aid in muscle recovery, a topic Nolan is very aware would be supremely pertinent to Mark’s interests, and which Mark is sure they would have talked about at length just a few months ago. But once again, Nolan only mentioned it because Mark asked him directly, _what’s the research grant for_?

Going back to Winnipeg for his kids camp only made it worse, somehow, even though he knew Nolan wasn’t in town that week, was off at his family’s lake cottage with his parents and sisters and a bunch of his extended family.

Mark hadn’t been sure whether to be relieved or disappointed that Nolan wouldn’t be around, and hadn’t had the guts to ask if Nolan had known, when he made his plans, about the dates of Mark’s school. He knows it’s not Nolan’s job to keep up with Mark’s schedule any more than it’s his job to make himself available just in case Mark has time for him, and Mark feels like a jerk for even thinking that way, it’s just - .

The whole summer has just felt so disjointed, so confusing, so – unsettled and just _off_.

It feels like his life is driving him instead of him driving his life, like he’s lost his grip on the wheel; Mark is self-aware enough to recognize, he can’t go on like this.

His attempts to protect himself, to take refuge from his fear and uncertainty by keeping everyone - even the most important people in his life - at arm’s length have only served to make him feel detached and out of touch, like everything he wants in his life is just out of his reach. He’s been trying to separate himself into two different people living in two different worlds, sure that his house of cards will come crumbling down if ever the two shall meet. But the truth is, all he’s managed to do is relegate the people closest to him to a partial share of his time, his attention, his_ life_. It’s left him feeling far away from everything and everyone, like he’s stuck all by himself on an island surrounded by a wide moat, isolated and lonely and exhausted.

Just by talking to his dad, by taking a few steps toward bridging the self-protective gap Mark has been putting between himself and his family, he’s already felt the impact on his mental state. Just starting the process, beginning the conversation that just a year ago he fully believed he would never be able to have, makes that chasm around him feel less insurmountable, like it’s shrinking – or at least holding steady - instead of widening day by day.

Mark knows it’s going to take a lot more of that – more powering through the sick feeling of uncertainty to tell the truth even when it’s hard – to get where he wants to go. If his talk with his dad did anything, it was sharpen that realization into a crystalline, needle-sharp point.

And the nagging concerns he’d carried into the summer from the end of the season, all his worries over whether or not having Nolan in his life was worth the extra work, the extra stress, worth the hiding and secrecy, now feel suddenly, since Mark kind-sorta-basically-almost came out to his dad, like more of the same: a bunch of perfectly reasonable excuses that keep him from telling the truth about who he is and what he wants.

And constantly walking on eggshells, living in fear that every decision could be the wrong one? That’s just no way to freaking live.

His faith entreats him to be bold, and to be a living example of the courage of his convictions - if Mark is sure of anything, he’s definitely sure of _that._

He closes out of the game he wasn’t really concentrating on anyway, and closes his eyes.

He breathes deep and prays, tries to remind himself that peace, courage, wisdom and strength are the only things he really needs from God; the rest is up to him.

-

It takes two hours before Nolan finally responds.

NoPats98: _Hey I’m here, what’s up?_

GoPats93: _Are you busy?_

It’s 11 p.m. in Kitchener, 10 p.m. in Winnipeg, and Mark has to check his phone calendar to remember that it’s Wednesday. He loses track in the off season.

NoPats98: _No, just got home from work. Just eating some dinner, why?_

Mark bites his lip. He’s been over and over and over this in his head for the last two days, ever since his conversation on the back porch with his dad. 

His worst-case scenario-meter is still screaming at him that he’d be an idiot to voluntarily let his number show up in the phone log of a guy who’s been sending him pornographic messages for months. That’s a no-brainer, a rookie mistake.

But his heart tells him that’s ridiculous, that he knows better, because Nolan would never in a million years do anything to deliberately hurt Mark like that. That his worst-case-scenarios are really just fear rearing its head, and that sometimes it might be the kind of fear he should listen to, but in this case, it’s just not.

His heart wins, in the end.

GoPats93: _Sorry if this is weird, but could I call you?_

NoPats98: _everything okay?_

GoPats93: _Fine, I just have some stuff I wanted to talk about. Would be easier on the phone if you’re up for it._

NoPats98: _Sure, give me maybe 10 minutes to finish eating and get up to my room ok?_

Then there’s his number, and Mark’s heart thuds into high gear.

He sends back one last message: _sounds good thanks_, then watches the clock on his phone tick slowly up from 11:07 to 11:10 to 11:14-15-16-17. He gives Nolan – and himself – two extra minutes, then at 11:19, he carefully punches in the number and hits send.

“Hey,” Nolan rumbles in that deep, deep voice, and the sound of it rolls down Mark’s spine with a shiver. “What’s, uh – what’s up?”

Mark swallows thickly, breathes deep.

“Uh, hey,” he starts awkwardly, “how’s it going?”

“Okay, but,” Nolan says, and his voice sounds tight. “What’s up, Scheif?”

“Not much,” Mark lies through his teeth. “I just, uh. Need to talk to you, I guess.”

Nolan sighs audibly.

“Listen,” he says, soft, and the resigned tone of his voice has the hairs on the back of Mark’s neck at attention, immediately. “You don’t need to do this, okay? I mean, I appreciate the thought, like the phone call is a nice gesture or whatever, but. I dunno, I’m not really trying to sit here and listen to all the reasons why, so. If it’s cool with you, can we just - y’know. Leave it?”

He breaks off there, and Mark’s trying to follow, but Nolan sounds a little off, his voice even more of a mumble than usual, so it’s almost hard to make out what he’s saying, much less what he means by it.

“Leave what?” Mark’s not trying to be difficult, but.

Nolan clears his throat.

“I only - . Like, I’m not gonna – whatever. Try to bother you, or anything. I hope you know, you don’t have to worry about that. Like, I can just – like I said. Leave it.”

And, _oh_, Mark realizes, Nolan’s saying - .

_Crap._

Nolan’s saying they should just – _leave it_. As in, let it go. As in, not try to do this anymore - not talk or see each other or _touch each other_ or anything, anymore, and - .

_Crap, crap, crap._

Mark takes a deep breath.

“Is that. I mean, is that what you want? To just – leave it?”

There’s an awkward, drawn out silence, and Mark lets it stretch as long as he can, tries to give Nolan time to respond without pressuring him or anything, but - .

“Because that’s not what I want at all,” he blurts, too impatient to hold his tongue. He really, truly doesn’t want to put pressure on Nolan, not at all, but he needs to just – make sure he’s clear. He needs to know, at least, that if they do just _leave it_, it’s because that’s what Nolan really wants, not because he thinks it’s what Mark wants.

“I didn’t call to say anything like that, if that’s. I mean, is that what you thought?”

“Well,” is all Nolan says, but it’s enough for Mark to hear the _yes_ he doesn’t say.

“Oh, geez,” Mark sighs, and he’s not sure he could have screwed this up any worse if he’d tried.

But maybe he _was_ trying, in some stupid, subconscious, fear-driven way, so – that’s something to work through another day. Today he just needs to -.

“I called to tell you – to _make sure_ you know how sorry I really am for being such a jerk at the end of the season, and. And ever since then, too, I think. And also that – yeah, I was maybe second guessing some things, but. But all I’ve done since I got home is think about you, and wish we could. Wish_ I_ could go back and do everything different, go back and make sure you know how much I. Just.”

He realizes he’s rambling, forces himself to take a breath and focus.

“If you want me to leave it, I will. Okay? I don’t _want_ to, but I will. If you think that’s for the best or whatever, I can’t. I mean, I wouldn’t blame you. Because I get it, this isn’t easy. Like, even less easy than I thought it would be, which – I expected it to be really freaking hard, so.”

Mark blows out a shaky breath into the silence. Nolan still hasn’t said a word.

“So is that, like.” Mark swallows hard, afraid to ask the rest of the question, and just as afraid not to. “Is that what you want?”

“Uh,” Nolan says faintly, and then he clears his throat. “I guess I’m not. I mean, Scheif, dude, it’s like.”

He blows out a long sigh, while Mark holds his breath.

“I don’t really like feeling like, whatever. Like I’m supposed to come when you call, and then get lost when it’s not convenient. Or like, I’m supposed to keep my hands off you when you say, then be ready to go whenever you decide, like - no discussion, no nothing. I dunno, I just. You said _this whole thing was a mistake_, y’know? That last night, at the condo? And I just feel like, I mean. Drunk people are obnoxious as hell, but they’re pretty much always telling the truth. Y’know?”

“Yeah,” Mark sighs, feeling empty and hollowed out, suddenly deflated. Of course Nolan doesn’t want to deal with all this, why would he? He could be doing a million other things with his life besides getting mixed up with Mark and his issues, and Mark should know better. Mark should be the bigger man, should be smart enough and mature enough to just accept what Nolan’s saying and bow out gracefully, admit defeat and say goodbye while he still has some dignity left.

He should, but.

“God, I’m really sorry,” he says weakly - the most ineffectual, uninspired, lackluster appeal possible. “I didn’t mean to make you feel that way, I never wanted to do any of that, I was just so freaking_ scared_, and. So stupid, and I - . I just, I really - . God, I just. _Fuck_.”

The last thing Mark expects after that eloquent speech is for Nolan to let out a short, staccato huff of a laugh.

“Did you just drop an actual F-bomb? Mark _Freakin’_ Scheifele?” Mark can hear the smile in his voice, and that’s something, at least.

“Damn. This must be serious, huh?”

“it _is_,” Mark insists, because he’s wound way too tight to laugh it off, too much on-edge to play it cool. “It’s serious to me, because it’s – _you’re_ important to me, and. Sorry if that’s, like. I know it’s a lot, or whatever, and that I can be really intense sometimes, and it’s maybe _too much_, but I just. I’m tired, you know? Of, like, not saying the things I want to say or, like. Doing the things I want to do, or whatever. I’m sick of it.”

Mark makes himself bite his tongue, forces himself to shut up and let Nolan have space to think, to talk if he wants to. He breathes heavily in the silence, eyes closed against whatever comes next.

“I get that,” Nolan says finally, quiet and calm in that deep, deep voice. “I get sick of it too, of feeling like I’m always, whatever. Keeping myself in check, y’know? Censoring myself, I guess.”

Mark tamps down on his immediate urge to speak up, to agree whole heartedly and explain that _yes_, that’s exactly what he means. Instead he stays silent, and waits.

“I guess I just. Jesus, I mean – I’ve been waiting, like, basically since you left town for you to tell me you’re done with this, and I just wasn’t. I mean, I didn’t expect, like – the opposite, I guess.”

“I’m sorry,” Mark blurts again, eyes still closed. He sucks in a breath through his nose. “I’m so sorry, but you have to know, I was never not. I mean I never _wanted_ to be done. I just thought for a while that maybe it would be for the best, that way. That doesn’t mean it’s ever what I _wanted_, you know?”

“I mean, I think so,” Nolan says, and then goes quiet again. 

Mark figures he’s got one more card to play, one Hail Mary to maybe, possibly convince Nolan he means it this time. That there’s no turning back, not for Mark, not anymore.

“I also wanted to tell you, I sort of. Came out to someone, I guess? I mean not in so many words, but – my dad, he. He for sure knows there’s someone I’ve been really hung up on, upset about, since I got home, someone I never mentioned to my parents, which isn’t like me at all, and he. He just – I kept saying, like, _this person is mad at me_, and like, _I don’t know if they still want to be with me_, so like - he definitely knows, you know? But.

“He said it’s good to have things in my life besides just hockey, and. And only I can know the right thing for me, and that they trust my judgement, which. I dunno, I guess I didn’t expect that? And I just felt really relieved, and I wanted to tell someone. I wanted to tell _you_, and I wanted to tell you I’m not so scared, anymore, and I know I can do better now, like, if you thought we could still – try. I mean, if that’s still what you wanted, or. Not.”

Mark forces himself to stop there, bites his lip and closes his eyes and says a silent, fervent prayer while he waits for Nolan to say something, to decide his fate.

“Wow,” is what Nolan says. “That was – uh. I didn’t expect that.”

“Yeah, I guess. I mean, yeah.” Mark sighs weakly, feeling exhausted. “Yeah, me neither, but here we are.” He breathes quietly into the silence, and forces himself to keep waiting.

“So,” Nolan’s voice finally breaks the silence, after an excruciatingly long pause. “How would that even. I mean, with you in Ontario? If we were gonna, you know. Still try to do this. Do you mean, like – just, old school, chatting and whatever until you’re back for camp, or?”

“I want to see you,” Mark cuts in. “I just need to figure out how. The condo is rented until September and anyway, I’ll just attract attention if I’m in Winnipeg again so soon. You could come here, but. I mean.”

Mark blows out a breath, just imagining the questions from his friends and family, questions he’s not even close to ready to answer.

What they need is time alone, without any pressure, to just. Figure this out.

“I guess I haven’t totally worked out the plan yet but I thought maybe I could, I dunno, rent an Airbnb somewhere? Like, I don’t mean to assume, I don’t know if you have time or could get away, or if you even _want_ to, but like -. It’s just an idea. If you wanted.”

Nolan is quiet for longer than Mark would like, almost longer than Mark can stand, but then he blows out a long breath. When he does, Mark’s lungs suddenly expand with relief.

“I think I have an idea.”

-

For someone Mark has actually only met a few times, and who he has not, empirically speaking, really spent that much time with, Mark thinks probably that seeing Nolan again shouldn’t have the impact on him, physically or emotionally, that it does.

He walks out of the Kenora airport with a plain black duffel slung over his shoulder, jeans and a boring, non-descript gray t-shirt, ratty sneakers, facial hair grown out to a solid approximation of a full beard. He’s got dark shades on and a black Nike cap pulled down low, no hockey logos in sight and no gear of any kind. He’s not used to traveling this light, or this incognito.

No one even gives him a second look, as he stands on the curb, waiting. He checks his Signal, where they’ve been communicating since The Phone Call two weeks ago, and sees a message from Nolan that he’s two minutes away.

Mark pockets his phone, and almost on cue catches sight of a vehicle just like Nolan described – dark gray, midsize Toyota pickup, extended cab. He can feel his heart racing as it pulls up in front of him, has to remind himself to breathe as he meets Nolan’s eyes through the passenger window.

He bites his cheek to keep from grinning like a lunatic while he tugs open the back door and tosses his bag in. He manages to keep it in check right up until he’s swung himself up into the front seat and closed the door, when he looks over to find Nolan pink-cheeked and fighting a smile from behind his yellow John Lennon glasses.

Mark wants to kiss him so bad he can taste it.

Instead he just beams at him, until both of them end up laughing at nothing. Nolan claps a hand down on Mark’s knee and gives it a little shake, then puts the truck in gear and eases away from the curb.

They don’t say much, on the drive. Mark’s never been to Kenora and Nolan’s been coming here his whole life, so he narrates a little as they drive through town – a grocery store and a few restaurants, a few points of interest along the waterfront, the giant fish sculpture they call _Husky the Muskie_.

It’s another twenty minutes west, down winding road after winding road, before Nolan slows and turns down a steep gravel path, and suddenly in front of him all Mark sees are trees divided by the road and, at the end of it, a wide expanse of water that gets wider, the closer they get.

The water rises up to meet them as they continue down the steep path, until Mark has a weird flash of anxiety that maybe Nolan got distracted, that they made a wrong turn or something and now they’re here in the middle of nowhere, lost. But then suddenly there’s a clearing in the trees, and Nolan turns off the path onto a flat, grassy area, just behind a narrow two-story cottage. It’s painted dark reddish brown, and it sits practically right on the water. There’s a garage door on the end of the building on the first floor, a deck on the front side that extends out over the water, another small building off to the side, and a set of weathered wood steps up from the parking pad to a door on the second floor.

Nolan cuts off the engine, and shrugs at Mark.

“Well,” he gestures vaguely through the windshield, “this is it.”

He shrugs again, looks unsure.

“Sorry, I know it’s - . Whatever. Not fancy or anything.”

Mark just snorts, shakes his head as he’s grabbing his bag and stepping out of the truck. _Fancy_ is the last freaking thing on his mind.

He’s much more focused on the fact that they’re surrounded by trees and water; he can’t see another building or another person anywhere. He grins at Nolan.

“No, it’s - ,” he breathes deep, and takes another look around, “it’s great, it’s. It looks awesome. Show me around?”

“Sure,” Nolan points up the stairs, “this way.”

At the top of the stairs Nolan jiggles the keys in the door, and after a few seconds of muttering at it under his breath, Mark hears the deadbolt thunk open.

“It’s kinda stubborn,” Nolan shrugs, with that little grin tugging at the corner of his lips, “hafta sort of sweet talk it.”

Inside the door is one big room with wood floors, wood walls, and a vaulted wood ceiling with big, rough-hewn timber beams exposed. There’s a kitchen and a long dining table at one end, some couches in the middle gathered around a wood stove, and what looks like a queen size bed tucked into one corner at the other end. There’s a wall of windows facing the lake, and a glass door that leads out onto a balcony, which juts out over the deck below. Across from the bed is the only door in the room, aside from the two that go outside. Mark’s really hoping that’s the washroom; he’s pretty sure Nolan would have mentioned if this place was the kind of _not fancy_ that requires a trip outside to pee.

“You can drop your stuff here for now,” Nolan nods at the nearest sofa, “and come see the rest.”

Mark does as he’s told, drops his duffel and follows Nolan back down the front steps and around to the waterfront. Next to the deck is a flat expanse of rocky grass, with a firepit and an old-fashioned drum-style charcoal BBQ. There are deck chairs scattered around, and a hammock strung between two scrubby trees. A little farther down from the house, the grass runs out and the lake laps against the gently sloping strip of rocky sand, making a little beach.

“That’s the sauna,” Nolan points at the small out-building on the opposite side of the house, just a few meters off the far side of the deck down a narrow rock path. “It’s the best when you get out of the lake and you’re freezing your ass off.”

He turns to the only door on the back of the house, situated on the first floor, directly under the upstairs balcony. This door opens with a quick turn of his key, no sweet talking necessary.

“This used to be the boat house,” he says as he flips on the lights. There’s no wall of windows, down here – it’s dark, even though it’s still early in the afternoon. “My Grandad used to have this big ass catamaran when I was younger.”

He makes a sweeping gesture around the room. There are six sets of bunk beds lining the walls, with a washroom in the same corner as the floor above.

“After a while there were so many grandkids we couldn’t even all fit on the boat anymore, so they got rid of it, turned this into more of a bunk room, so more of us could stay here at once. Now we just have kayaks and the boards and the fishing skiff, so.”

The far end of the room still has the big rolling garage door, like you’d need to get a big boat in here, but next to it on the wall are kayaks and paddle boards and paddles and fishing poles hung on pegs above piles of life jackets and tackle boxes. There’s a narrow, molded-plastic fishing boat on a low trailer, a ratty-looking sectional sofa and an air hockey table at an odd angle in the middle of the room.

It may not be fancy, but Mark can imagine how much fun it could be, crammed into this one little room with all your family, hanging out on the lake all day and just crashing here, exhausted, at night. For a kid, it was probably heaven.

“I was thinking,” Nolan says as Mark’s taking it all in, “I can sleep down here, if you want.” He doesn’t meet Mark’s eyes, just stares off into the middle distance.

“Just so it’s not so – you know.”

Mark hasn’t touched him, not once since he got off the plane, but now he reaches out without even thinking.

He snags Nolan’s hand, wraps his fingers around his broad wrist.

“I think you should sleep wherever you want,” Mark says, thumb tracing absently over the veins along the thin skin on the inside of Nolan’s wrist, “but I mean. If you’re asking what I want, then. Definitely, I’d rather we just, y’know.”

He swallows thickly, and when he raises his eyes, Nolan’s looking at him intently.

“Stayed together,” he manages to finish, and Nolan’s eyes spark, his lips curve up. He pushes his hair back behind his ear with the hand Mark’s not holding, and Mark can see his cheeks have gone pink.

“Cool,” he says, low and gruff. “I mean, sure. Good.”

“Good,” Mark agrees, and slides his hand down to squeeze Nolan’s fingers.

-

Nolan finds Mark a life vest that fits nice and snug, and doesn’t even give him a hard time about not being able to swim.

Of course, he’s already been chirping about it ever since Mark told him, so like, for months now. But here, when they’re just about to take the boat out, Nolan’s definitely not messing around.

He adjusts the straps of the vest carefully while Mark stands there with his arms out. It reminds him of going to the tailor. Once Nolan’s satisfied, he tugs up on the shoulders of the vest, hard, trying to dislodge it, but it stays in place.

“Okay, I think we’re good,” he decides, brow furrowed, all business. Mark really, _really_ wants to kiss him.

Instead, he follows instructions to help get the fishing boat down to the water, and get it launched from the shallow beach. Nolan has Mark climb in first as he pushes the boat out further, and only boosts himself up and over the side once he’s waded them out far enough that he’s in almost waist high water.

“Shit,” he groans, “damn that’s cold.” He pulls a beach towel out of one of the bags he brought, and wraps it around his waist, teeth chattering.

“I thought you were a pro at this, bud,” Mark teases, but Nolan just shivers and rolls his eyes.

“Woulda been fine if it was just my legs,” he hisses. “Went in one step deeper than I meant to. See how you like it first time your balls take an ice bath.”

Mark throws his head back and cackles.

“My balls take a literal ice bath like three times a week during the season,” he huffs, “I don’t think they have any feeling left at this point.”

Nolan’s lips curve up in one of his sly little smiles, and his cheeks go pink before he even says,

“We’ll see about that.”

-

The little boat has a tiny electric trolling motor, which Nolan uses to take them up and down the water front a ways, around and between a couple of the nearest islands, then back to the house. It’s a windy day, beautiful when the sun’s shining, but with big billowing clouds rolling across the sun one after another, they get chilly fast. Tomorrow’s forecast calls for the same plus rain, which Nolan swears makes for great fishing weather. Mark wouldn’t know; he’s not much of a fisherman himself.

Once they stow the boat and make it up stairs, they’re both shivering in their shorts and t-shirts, and Mark’s not even wet.

Nolan changes into dry pants in the room in the corner, which does turn out to be a washroom. He gives Mark the task of lighting a fire in the wood stove, while Nolan throws together dinner. Mark takes a seat at the end of the long table once he manages to get the fire going, happy to have made himself somewhat useful, and watches Nolan chop cooked chicken breast and layer fresh mozzarella and roasted red peppers on top of the bed of spinach before he rolls the wraps. He brings over the plates, and a supermarket tray of pre-cut fresh fruit and vegetables to the table.

“I think everything I got at the store is on plan,” he pops a raspberry in his mouth as he sits down across from Mark, and shrugs. “At least I hope. I’m pretty sure I remembered to avoid everything on your inflammation list, but.”

Mark can feel his own face going red, for once.

“I won’t die if everything’s not -.” He starts, embarrassed at the idea of Nolan even _thinking_ about Mark’s _Inflammation List_, geez. Between his pathological insistence on secrecy and his little melt-down at the end of the season, between leaving town without even saying goodbye and then being so weird all summer, making Nolan think he wasn’t interested anymore, and now _this_ – imagining Nolan getting here early this morning so he could stock the cottage with all Mark’s freaking specialty foods so he won’t freak out about his dumb diet, before he came to pick Mark up and play tour guide all day, it’s just.

Mark suddenly feels like, _God_.

He’s _so high-maintenance_. Why would Nolan even want to _bother_ with him, he’s so much trouble, but.

Nolan’s just tossing blueberries into his mouth, looking unconcerned, and Mark just.

He wants to kiss him so, so bad, just like he has all day, but it suddenly feels. Important._ Imperative_. Like he can’t not. He pushes his chair back, watches Nolan’s eyebrows go up as Mark stands suddenly.

“What?” Nolan looks confused as Mark grabs for his hand.

“Can you, just,” Mark says, and tugs. Nolan’s eyebrows go even higher, his cheeks blazing suddenly, but he stands, lets Mark pull him in close.

Mark wraps his arms around and tucks his face into Nolan’s neck, breathes deep. He smells like the lake and like sunshine and sunscreen and summer and_ Nolan_, and Mark feels like his knees might give, it’s so good. Nolan’s arms go around him, tentative and holding himself apart a bit at first, until Mark squeezes tighter, and finally Nolan lets himself relax into Mark’s body, a heavy, comforting weight. Mark lets out a long, relieved breath.

How could he have ever thought maybe this wasn’t worth it, wasn’t _right_? Standing here, now, with Nolan solid and warm against him, he can’t even imagine how he could ever have doubted this.

He takes in another long, deep breath of Nolan, and lets it out slow.

“Thank you,” he whispers, lips against the skin under Nolan’s ear. “For giving me another chance and for inviting me here and for, whatever. For caring about my dumb food list and for making sure my life jacket fits right so I don’t drown like an idiot and just.”

“It’s cool,” Nolan grumbles, barely audible against Mark’s shoulder, and Mark laughs. He straightens up enough so they’re face to face, rests his forehead against Nolan’s.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you all day,” he whispers, and Nolan locks down his jaw and purses his lips to fight off his smile, cheeks bright red.

“So do it then,” he growls, like a dare, and Mark doesn’t need to be told twice.

-

“Holy crap,” Mark feels his line go taut and sits up straight, fingers tightening on his rod, “I think I got something.”

Nolan’s face lights up in that way Mark finds totally adorable. It’s almost worth getting up at six a.m. to haul the boat out onto the cold, rainy lake and sit here silently for the last two hours, just to see that face.

Almost.

Mark pulls on his rod just by reflex, but Nolan reaches for his forearm, wraps a strong hand around to still Mark’s movements.

“Don’t yank on it,” he instructs firmly, “and don’t reel too fast. Just nice and slow.”

Mark prides himself on being coachable, so he listens to Nolan’s instructions and does as he’s told, spinning his reel slowly and keeping his arm steady.

“My grandad taught me to fish.” Nolan’s standing beside him, watching carefully.

“That’s awesome,” Mark murmurs, eyes on the way his line is pulling and jumping, swerving in the water.

“He told me reeling a fish in is like seducing a woman. You gotta be gentle about it, be careful, steady. No big sudden movements, make sure she feels safe so she doesn’t spook and run. Just be patient and sweet with her, bring her in slow and easy and before you know it, you got her in your hands.”

“Uh, wow,” Mark cuts his eyes up at Nolan, but he keeps reeling as instructed. “That’s, um - .”

“Really inappropriate advice for an eight-year-old?” Nolan grins.

Mark snorts.

“For starters, yeah.”

“Yeah,” Nolan nods, still grinning. “And not actually that pertinent to my life, as it turns out.”

Mark snickers, and keeps on reeling.

When he finally gets his fish into the boat, dumps it into the big drum filled with water where the two Nolan’s already caught are swimming around idly, he does feel a sense of accomplishment, however small. He thinks he can understand, in theory at least, why people like fishing, he’s just not sure he’s ever going to be one of those people.

Almost like he can read Mark’s mind, Nolan fires up the little electric motor and turns the boat for home.

“You look like you’re having a little too much fun, there,” he shoots a look at Mark, amused, and Mark definitely does not correct him.

Last night they stood there beside the dining table, kisses becoming less and less tentative and hands roaming to more and more exotic places, until Nolan finally pulled away with a pointed cough and an embarrassed laugh.

“Good thing dinner started out cold, I guess.” He cut his eyes to the barely-touched wraps on their plates.

“Sorry,” Mark groaned against Nolan’s cheek, squeezing him close and planting one more kiss on his mouth before releasing him with a disappointed sigh. “It looks really good, though. It’s just - .”

“If you say I look better, I’m punching you.” Nolan’s eyebrows were daring him, so Mark snorted out _but_ _you look better, eh?_ and then didn’t even attempt any evasive maneuvers, just dutifully let Nolan slug him in the arm.

Mark could feel it as they sat down to eat, the frisson of tension that’d been stretched between them all day - the uncertainty, the insecurity about where they stand with one another - had finally broken. The stilted, polite small talk they’d been engaged in since Mark arrived finally gave way to just _talking_, and they caught up on their summers, feet tangled together under the table. Nolan asked a bunch of questions about Mark’s off-season life back in Kitchener – where he lives, who he sees, how he works out, where he gets his ice time, how his family’s doing – and Mark finally got to hear all about Nolan’s summer job – what kind of research he’s doing, how it’s going, what techniques they’re testing and what kind of preliminary results they’ve had so far. He was a little jealous to learn Nolan’s already gotten to test out the University’s new cryochamber, which Nolan swore is like a thousand times better than an ice bath.

Just talking that way, just being a little more relaxed with each other, Mark already felt the tightness he’s been carrying between his shoulder blades since April start to unravel, just a bit. But Nolan got dressed for bed with his back pointedly turned to Mark, and crawled under the covers at the very edge of the bed, taking pains not to touch Mark as he did it. They slept side by side like they were rooming together at summer camp, or something, and it was, just - .

It’s not what Mark wants, or at least not where he wants this to end up, this week. But it was only the first night, and he understands why Nolan’s skittish. He came in guns blazing the first time, and Mark turned and ran, so. It makes Mark’s stomach twist to think of how open Nolan was with him, before, how honest he was about what he wanted, how he was brave enough to be so vulnerable while Mark hid like a coward behind his religion and his career and his fear of exposure.

Mark doesn’t blame Nolan for being slow to warm up, after all that. And Mark’s got four more nights to try and show Nolan that he’s sure now, that he really _means_ it this time.

He thinks about his fishing lesson, about Nolan’s Grandfather’s advice, and wonders if maybe there’s something in there that’s applicable to Nolan’s life, after all.

-

When they make it back to the beach at the cottage, Mark watches Nolan kill and clean the fish. It’s kinda brutal and definitely smelly and bloody, and should probably be, like. Less _hot_, honestly, but Nolan is clearly very proficient at this and Mark has never pretended that he’s not a sucker for displays of skill and expertise. And anyway, Mark is at a point where everything Nolan does just makes Mark want to like, growl at him or something. Just _grab_ him and. _Ugh_.

He’s trying really hard to play it cool, to do the whole _no big sudden movements, make sure he feels safe_ thing, just like with the fish. But his fingers are itching, his heart’s beating too fast. He just wants _more_, and there’s the part of him that knows that’s okay, that he’s allowed to want things, and the part of him that knows he’s got to be patient, because that’s the least Nolan deserves and Mark definitely, _really_ doesn’t want to screw this up again.

Nolan tells Mark he can have the upstairs shower, and goes downstairs to get cleaned up. They spend rest of the day lazing around, cat napping and watching movies. Mark watches Nolan cook the fish for dinner, then Nolan watches Mark do the dishes. They go downstairs and play an increasingly competitive best of 11 air hockey tournament that ends up extended to 13, then 15 rounds when Mark finds himself on the losing end at 5-6, then again at 6-7. After Round 15 goes in Nolan’s favor, Mark accepts his fate and takes the loss at 7-8.

Nolan whoops and yells, crowing about being _The Undisputed Champion of the World_, then he stills and fixes Mark with a suspicious look.

“Wait.” His eyes narrow. “Did you let me win?”

Mark just snorts.

“You know me better than that,” he rolls his eyes, and Nolan’s already-flushed-from-exertion cheeks suddenly burn bright red.

“Yeah,” he grins his tiny little grin, jaw set and chin tucked down and looking up at Mark through his lashes. “I guess I do.”

Mark can’t not kiss him, after that, can’t not pull him in close enough to feel Nolan flush up against him, warm and solid and salty with sweat, with his hair curling damply at the nape of his neck and just – _God_. Mark wants him so bad.

He wants everything, all of it, whatever Nolan wants, or will let him have, Mark just. _Wants_, just like he always has with Nolan, except there’s no anxiety behind it now, no lingering undercurrent of uncertainty and no questions left in his mind about whether it’s right or wrong, good or bad.

It just _is_, and Mark feels it thrumming in his veins, wide open and free and unfettered by the fear that slowed it down before. He sees so clearly now, that was the bad kind of fear, the kind his dad warned him about, the kind that keeps you from living your life. And what Mark feels now is a whole new, different level of terrifying, but this time it’s in a good way. It’s like waiting for his name to be called at the Draft, or waiting his turn in the shoot out – it’s the kind that lets him know something big is happening, maybe even something life changing. It’s opportunity knocking, and Mark’s not going to let the opportunity pass, not this time.

“I’m sorry,” he pants against Nolan’s mouth, “I’m sorry, I know we’re supposed to be going slow, easing back into things, I just.”

“It’s okay,” Nolan’s voice is so low, it’s barely a whisper as he exhales harshly, fingers flexing on Mark’s hips. “It’s okay, I know, I want to, it’s just -. I’m not.”

“No,” Mark says, and kisses him, then steps back. “Look, you don’t need to explain anything to me, okay? And you don’t have to hurry up for me, either. You’ve been, like, beyond patient, and I just want. I want whatever you want, okay? Whenever you want it. That’s it – that’s all.”

Nolan rolls his forehead against Mark’s shoulder with a low, rumbling growl.

“Oh, that’s _all_, huh?” he huffs. “Nothing much, just whatever I want, right, got it.”

“Sorry,” Mark feels like a broken record, but it’s the truth. “I’m not trying to say it’s all on you, I just want to. I need to make sure you know that I’m, like. I’m in, okay? Not like, _probably_, or like _mostly_. Just – I’m in. Whenever you’re ready.”

Nolan hugs him tight, whispers _okay_ into his neck before pulling away, looking sheepish.

They spend another purely platonic night next to each other in the bed, another cold, drizzly morning out on the lake, and another lazy day inside by the fire. Mark keeps his hands to himself, reminds himself patience is a virtue, grits his teeth, and _waits_.

-

The morning of the fourth day dawns sunny and warm, finally. Also, Mark gets to find that news out at a more reasonable hour, like eight a.m. instead of at _actual_ dawn, because Nolan’s alarm doesn’t blare him awake at six the way it did on the two previous mornings.

“Today’s not a fishing day,” Nolan grins, smug, when Mark makes a smart comment about sleeping in. “It’s a swimming day. Hope your balls are ready.”

Mark’s hand slides over, hidden by the bed covers, and pinches at Nolan’s side. Nolan squeals and squirms away, then rolls over ready to fight. Mark didn’t have any intentions about starting something with that pinch, he was really just responding on instinct to Nolan’s chirping about swimming and Mark’s balls, but when he ends up flat on his back, Nolan straddling his middle and holding his arms down against the bed, both of their chests heaving, he can’t say he’s sorry about his choices.

“Nolan,” he breathes, because what he wants to say is _please_ but he can’t, he’s already promised Nolan as much time as he needs.

“I’ve told you not to call me that,” Nolan blinks down at him seriously, big blue eyes and shaggy hair falling in his face, then leans in purposefully to rub three days worth of bristly whiskers against the thin skin of Mark’s throat. Mark keens, letting out a low groan, rolling his head to the side to give better access.

“Pats,” Mark corrects, panting, “if that’s supposed to be, like, negative reinforcement or whatever, I don’t think it’s working.”

“Oh, it’s not?” Nolan raises an eyebrow, all mock-shocked, and lets go of one of Mark’s wrists. He keeps his eyes on Mark’s, and his hand moves slow, like he’s daring Mark to stop him as he reaches behind himself, fingers tracing the waistband of Mark’s pajama pants along his belly.

Then he slides his hand farther back, and his palm settles directly over Mark’s erection.

Mark pants, eyes open wide and fixed on Nolan’s, and waits.

“Seems like _something’s_ working for you.” He’s still got one eyebrow raised, taunting, and Mark whimpers a little when he moves his hand. He squeezes and rubs along the length of Mark’s shaft, and Mark has to concentrate to keep his legs flat on the bed, keep from tucking his knees up instinctively. He never really thought about where the phrase _knee-jerk reaction_ came from before, but he’s thinking about it now.

Once again, he’s biting back the _please_ that wants to come out, hissing instead from between clenched teeth, panting, and waiting. Showing Nolan he can be patient.

“No one’s ever touched you this way before, huh?”

Nolan’s tone is light, like he’s asking what Mark wants for breakfast or something, but his eyes are dark. Mark shakes his head.

“You know they haven’t,” he whispers, and Nolan nods, apparently satisfied. He slides his hand up and down over Mark’s fly a few more times, smug little smile tugging up on the corner of his mouth as he watches Mark squirm under him, then suddenly he’s got both hands back around Mark’s wrists, leaning down to cover Mark’s mouth with his own.

“I don’t know why that’s so hot,” Nolan grumbles against Mark’s lips, “but it makes me, like, crazy. Want to put my hands all over you, put my mouth all over you, _fuck_.”

Mark groans, heart racing and every inch of him very much on board with that plan, but then Nolan pulls back, still with that little grin.

“But not yet,” he says, and swings his leg over Mark to move off the bed. His erection is obvious, in his thin sweats. “First, I’m gonna teach you to swim.”

“Uh, but,” Mark whimpers pathetically, still dazed, “wait. What, though?”

“Come on,” Nolan pops him on the side of his hip, as close as he can get to Mark’s butt when he’s lying on his back. “Up and at ‘em, champ. Just a few minutes in the water and you won’t even notice the blue balls, promise.”

-

They leave the boat at home and take the paddleboards, which Mark has never done before, but he takes to it right away. They don’t even have to get into the water, they just sit on the end of the deck out front and float the boards right underneath them in the water; Nolan shows him how to attach the leash to his ankle, the stance to take on the board and how to stick his paddle down into the muddy shore and use it to balance as he stands up, and then – it’s actually easy. They stick close to the waterline headed West from the cottage, and it’s just warm enough with the sun shining on their backs, and just far enough to where they’re going that Mark actually works up a sweat getting there. It feels _good_, after three days of latent anxiety and being mostly cooped up inside the cottage because of the weather, of overthinking things in the midst of just lounging around with almost no physical outlet for his jittery nerves – it’s good to feel his muscles working, feel his heart beating from exertion instead of nerves, feel his blood pumping. Mark’s never been great at being inactive, gives him too much time to get into his own head, and physical activity and the rush of endorphins that come with it always gives him a sense of improved mental clarity, makes him feel more relaxed.

He breathes deep and takes in the scenery as they paddle along, and if that scenery includes the muscles working in Nolan’s butt and back as he’s paddling just ahead of Mark, well, the day is so nice and Mark’s feeling so good, he barely even needs to remind himself, there’s nothing wrong with looking.

There’s a brief break in the trees along the waterline that Mark maybe wouldn’t even have noticed if he hadn’t been so close to the shore, and moving at such a leisurely pace, relatively speaking. In a fast-moving boat from a few meters farther out, it would barely even be visible.

Nolan guides them through the narrow waterway, and after a few meters the water opens back up and suddenly they’re in a wide, sunny cove. There are sloping cliffs on all sides, but they angle back from the shore in a way that means they don’t cast many shadows on the water. The sun shines in on all sides, so the big boulders that cover the bottom of the cove are clearly visible through the perfectly clear water. The rocks under them look almost close enough to reach down and touch, like they’re just beneath the glassy surface. Mark can see the schools of bait fish twitch and twirl away from them as their boards cast shadows while they move, see the occasional larger fish gliding leisurely along.

Nolan paddles right out into the middle of the cove, then spins himself around to face Mark.

“This is where I learned to swim,” he shrugs, and promptly slides down off his board into the water with a hiss.

The water’s only shoulder high on Nolan, which means it will be shoulder high on Mark, so he feels safe to follow suit.

Maybe it’s because of the workout on the way over, maybe it’s because of the way Nolan built it up, or maybe it’s just the shallow, sun-warmed water, but Mark really is used to sitting in literal ice water on a regular basis, so the water in the lake isn’t even that bad.

“How’re your balls doing, there?” Nolan grins as he swims closer, and Mark rolls his eyes.

“They’re fine, thanks for checking.”

“Just making sure,” Nolan says, and suddenly his hands are anchored on Mark’s waist, and they’re standing face to face, chest to chest. “Gonna need those later, eh bud?” He leaves a quick little barely-there kiss on Mark’s mouth before Mark can even process what exactly that might mean, lips cold and wet and tasting like the lake, then he pulls back immediately.

“But first, swimming. Right?”

“That’s what I hear,” Mark says warily, wondering how he’s going to handle this.

Because, okay.

It’s not that Mark’s _afraid of the water_.

Not _exactly_, anyway.

It’s just, he’s always had a little bit of a – problem – when it comes to having his_ head_ under it. It makes him feel a little panicky, is all, and he’d just rather _not_, if he can help it, is the thing.

And it’s not that his parents never tried to teach him to swim, it’s just, all the swimming lessons he ever had involved, at some point – usually early on - putting his face in the water, and that was where things tended to fall apart.

But he was a kid then, Mark tells himself logically. Being afraid of having your head underwater is silly and childish and he’s a grown man now, and.

And _Nolan is watching_ him, now, so.

Time to buck up.

Nolan leads them over toward the side of the cove, the water getting more and more shallow as they go. He shoves Mark’s board up onto the short little stretch of pebbly beach between the edge of the water and the face of the rocky bluff, so Mark is unencumbered, then moves back out closer to the middle where it’s deep enough to actually swim, trailing his own board behind him. He has Mark leave his life vest on and asks him to swim over, so he can see what he’s working with.

Mark feels a little stupid, knowing he’s probably flailing around like a toddler, but he gets there just fine, head and shoulders safely above the water the whole time. Nolan watches carefully, nodding when Mark comes to a stop in front of him.

“With the kids I teach, strength and coordination are lacking, sometimes, so that can make it tough for them to get the hang of it, to feel confident in the water.”

He grabs Marks shoulders and spins him, pulls him in so his back is against Nolan’s chest.

“But you’ve got plenty of upper body strength.” He says against Mark’s ear like it’s something secret and _filthy_, sliding his hands down from Mark’s shoulders to his elbows. “And I think your gross motor skills are pretty solid, so. I think you’ve got what it takes, Scheifele.”

Mark shivers, with some crazy combination of anxiety and lust.

Nolan reaches around and unbuckles his vest, tugs it off his shoulders. Mark can feel his heart rate kick up immediately, even though the water level is hovering around his last rib, and there’s absolutely no reasonable threat of drowning right here, with his feet on the ground and Nolan standing a foot away.

He tries to breathe deep and not show any outward signs of panic.

He manages to half-listen as Nolan tells him that swimming isn’t actually about moving your body through the water, it’s just about understanding your natural buoyancy and how to effectively move the water around you to take advantage of that. But mostly, he can only sort of hear over the pounding of his own pulse in his ears while he waits for the part that always comes first, the part he remembers with nauseating clarity from his childhood – the part where they want you to put your face in the water and float.

Instead Nolan pulls his paddle board over and they both boost themselves up so they’re lying sideways across it, using it to support their midsections. Mark immediately feels his heart slow down, immediately feels less anxious even though he’s still not crazy about this position, face-down with nothing but water a few inches from his nose. But Nolan shows him how to form a paddle with his hands and demonstrates how to pull them through the water, explains that he doesn’t need to use an over-water stroke because that takes much more energy; all he has to do is pull his hands in toward his chest in a wide arc, then push them back out in front of him and repeat. Mark can immediately recognize how much different it feels following Nolan’s instructions, keeping his wrists firm and in line with his forearms, fingers cupped stiffly together, making sure to always keep his palms facing the same direction his arms are moving. Compared to the sort of indiscriminate, thoughtless churning of arms that Mark usually goes with any time he has to imitate “swimming”, he definitely feels immediately more secure, more in control. They pull themselves a good distance across the cove that way, side by side on the board, just using their arms.

Next they move on to kicking, and Nolan explains just as simply, and just as patiently how to pull your knees up and turn your feet out, kick your legs out and extend, then gather them back in toward your butt in a rough approximation of a frog. They kick their way back across the cove that way, then go across again, using both legs and arms. On the other side, Nolan hops off the board and swims alongside, calling out pointers and encouragement while Mark dutifully swims the board back across the cove again using his frog kicks and his arm pulls, just like he was taught.

He can feel his heart beating faster again the closer he gets to the other side. He has a feeling he knows what comes next.

“That was good,” Nolan grins, “you’re a natural. Now hop off and let’s see how you do without the floatation device.”

Mark does as he’s told, but he can feel himself breathing faster already, a heavy weight forming in his stomach. He reminds himself one more time that he’s safe, that his feet are on the ground and Nolan’s right here, and there’s no reason at all for him to be freaking out like this. He breathes deep, and pushes down on his panic.

Sure enough, Nolan demonstrates floating on his stomach, arms out to the side and legs spread to maximize his surface area. He shows how to go from that position to moving his arms out front of him and legs out behind him, how to transition from floating to adding the stroke and kick they’ve just been working on.

“Okay,” he wipes the water away from his eyes as he stands up, “so just remember, as long as there’s air in your lungs and fat on your body, you float. And even _you_ have _some_ fat, so.”

He grins, slaps the water.

“Show me what you got.”

Mark’s just going to do it. He’s going to do it because it’s a reasonable thing to do, and children everywhere do it every day and he’s a grown man and water safety is an important thing to learn and there’s no good reason not to.

Also because Nolan’s looking at him expectantly, and he’s out of excuses, so he’s going to do it.

He _is_.

“I’m kinda hungry,” is what he says, instead of just doing it. “How about we eat first, then you can finish torturing me.”

He finishes up with a weak little laugh that sounds unconvincing even to his own ears, and just stands there awkwardly.

Nolan narrows his eyes, suspicious, and looks like he’s about to say something, but then he stops and closes his mouth.

He looks up at the sky, gauging the position of the sun almost directly overhead, and shrugs.

“Yeah, okay. Let’s eat.”

He’s got a small case strapped to the end of his board, and once they make it over to the pebble beach next to where he stashed Mark’s board earlier, he unstraps it and opens it up. He pulls out water and raw almonds and dried mango and banana chips, unsweetened. He’s even got grass-fed, nitrate free jerky.

“You didn’t have to go to all this trouble.” Mark feels embarrassed just looking at the food spread out on the rocks between them. “I never meant for you to think, like - .”

He shrugs, not sure how to say _I don’t have get my way all the time_, or _everything doesn’t always have to be on my terms. _He’s not sure why Nolan would believe him anyway, based on the historical evidence.

But Nolan just shrugs, unperturbed as always, and pulls out a RedBull and a PowerBar from the bottom of the case. He bites into the power bar wrapper, ripping it with his teeth.

“I brought stuff for me that I like, and stuff for you that you like. It’s not a thing.” He shrugs again and tugs the wrapper away from one end of his bar, then bites into the sugary, nutritionally empty bar that Mark would only _possibly_ consider eating if he were starving to death on a deserted island.

Nolan chews contentedly, looking out over the water while he washes his bite down with a swig of RedBull. Mark laughs, and shakes his head.

“What I don’t get,” he says through a mouthful of almond and banana, “is that you of all people know exactly what’s in that crap, that it’s totally useless nutritionally. But you still eat it.”

Nolan just snorts.

“A lot of shit that tastes good is useless nutritionally, bud. I’m not giving up fries or buffalo wings, either, hate to break it to you.”

“Or cupcakes,” he adds after a beat, like he’s really thinking about it.

“Fair enough.” Mark keeps grinning, and stuffs a piece of fancy jerky into his mouth.

They hang out on the shore and eat in silence, soak in the sun and the warm breeze. Mark keeps snacking well past the point he normally would, some sort of nervous tic to stave off the inevitability of having to go back in the water for part two of his swimming lessons, but after a while Nolan nudges his calf with a now-completely-dry foot, jerks his head out at the cove.

“Y’know, lots of people don’t really like water. It’s not a big deal.”

Mark feels his face heat immediately.

“I’m not.” He shakes his head. “I like the water fine, it’s -. It’s fine.”

Nolan nods slowly, assessing Mark from under lowered brows.

“Don’t like _going underwater_, then,” he says pointedly, “whatever. A lot of people feel claustrophobic about it - trust me, it’s like, super common. So whatever your deal is, like, it’s chill. You could have just said, y’know?”

He nudges Mark’s calf with his toe again, gives him that little hint of a smile.

“You know I’m not _actually _trying to torture you, right?”

“Yeah, I know.”

Mark’s pretty sure he knows, at least, but it’s not like he’d blame Nolan if -.

But no, this isn’t about punishing him, or making him prove anything, Mark knows that, he _does_. He can’t put it back on Nolan when the truth is - .

“I just didn’t want to seem. I mean.” He sighs. “It’s a dumb thing to be – whatever. _Afraid of_, I guess. Like, I don’t know why it freaks me out but it’s like, it sounds pretty lame to say you never learned to swim because you were too scared to put your face in the water. I mean it’s one thing for a kid but like, as an adult it’s just. Embarrassing to admit that, especially to a guy you’re trying to - .”

Mark feels his face go red again, and he rolls his eyes.

“A guy you’re trying to what,” Nolan asks, low and smug, chin down and peering up at Mark from under the veil of his eyelashes, which is absolutely dirty pool.

“_Impress_,” Mark huffs, “or whatever.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Mark can see Nolan’s jaw set, his mouth twist the way that happens when he’s hiding a smile.

His toes poke at Mark’s calf again, then again, then again until Mark looks up at him.

“It’s like, I’m glad you want to impress me? But also, like, I’ve been impressed since I was whatever – thirteen – so like, you _really _don’t need to work so hard at it there, eh?”

He tucks his hair behind his ear, keeps flexing his toes against Mark’s leg like a nervous tic.

“I actually. I mean, it’s nice. Good, I think. To see you be, like, a regular person? Who like, freaks out sometimes and has flaws and shit, you know?”

Mark snorts.

“Me not having flaws is like – not a thing you will ever need to worry about.” He lets his hand rest tentatively on Nolan’s ankle. “I’m more afraid that, like. I just. There’s a lot of crap to deal with, when it comes to me, and I _know_ that, and I want to try to not - . Whatever. Scare you away with all my freaking baggage.”

Nolan just shrugs, nonchalant as always.

“Everybody’s got baggage, Scheif. It only like, becomes an issue if you’re trying to, whatever. Hide it, or like, just ignore it and not talk about it and pretend everything’s okay when it’s not. Because if we’re gonna – you know.”

His face is already pink from the warm day and the sun, but the lurid red that suddenly flares along his cheekbones tells Mark that whatever’s coming next, it’s important. He watches intently as Nolan bites at his bottom lip for a second before continuing.

“If we’re gonna, like, be _together_. Or just – really _try_ it, or whatever. You have to be able to trust me to like, be discreet and everything, but also trust me when I say I want like, the real you, not like – whatever. I don’t want the media version or the fan-friendly version, I don’t want the guy from the poster, you know? I want _you_, the real deal. Even the shitty parts, because everyone has shitty parts. Y’know what I mean?”

Mark feels a lump suddenly form in his throat, feels a tightness in his chest, because he’s been afraid of exactly the opposite – afraid maybe what Nolan really wants is the idealized image of Mark he’s built up in his head for years, and that he’ll lose interest eventually, the more he gets to know the real Mark.

That he’ll be _disappointed_, eventually, the more he gets to know the real Mark.

He knows that what Nolan is saying is right, that they have to be able to talk about things, even uncomfortable or embarrassing things, in order for this to work. Nolan’s toes are still shoved against Mark’s leg, Mark’s fingers still wrapped around Nolan’s ankle. He runs his hand up Nolan’s calf and back down, traces the fine bones of Nolan’s ankle with his fingertips. He breathes deep, and forces himself to speak.

“I’ve been afraid,” he grits out, “of not living up to – just, whatever you want me to be. Like, you’re young and smart and hot, you have a lot of options, you have the freedom to do whatever you want, to date anyone you want, and. I’ve been afraid that maybe you’re only into like, the_ idea_ of me, but if you get to know the _actual _me, you’ll be. I mean. It’s just – I’m not some cool guy, okay? I’m like – I’m just a boring homebody, my parents are my best friends and the only thing I know about is hockey and religion, otherwise I’m kind of. Just a dork who happens to play hockey for a living, and. That’s not much to go on, I guess.”

It’s quiet for a beat before Nolan responds.

“Yeah, well, guess what,” he shakes the foot that Mark’s got his hand wrapped around, “I’ve been afraid, too. That, like, you’re only interested in me because I’m your only option, because it’s hard for you to meet anyone else. That my dumb student problems probably seem lame to you, because you have this cool job and this exciting life and I’ve barely ever been out of Winnipeg. Y’know?”

“That’s not,” Mark shakes his head, “like, I don’t think that at all. I think you’re really.”

He looks down, grits his teeth.

“I can’t imagine wanting anyone more than you, just. I mean that’s just the truth, so.”

Mark’s still looking down at his hand wrapped around Nolan’s ankle, but Nolan shakes his foot some more, until Mark looks up. Nolan’s grinning his little closed-lip grin, looking smug.

“Well, I mean. Same, okay?”

Mark swallows thickly, and nods. He feels a little lightheaded, reminds himself to breathe.

“And how many times do I have to tell you, I’ve read like every interview and every article about you for the past seven years. I’m already very aware of how not cool you are.”

He lets out a little snort at his own joke, and Mark can’t help but roll his eyes.

“Yeah well, what does that say about your taste in guys?”

“Probably that all I really care about is a hot body.”

Suddenly Nolan’s pinching at Mark’s thigh with his toes, making Mark squawk and squirm away.

“How dare you,” he pants as Nolan, predictably, presses his advantage to get Mark flat on his back on the rocks, looming over him. “There’s more to me than my six-pack.”

“Yeah,” Nolan grins down at him, shaggy hair falling in his face, “you’ve also got a sick wrister.”

Then they’re kissing again, right out in the open where God and everyone can see.

Of course there’s not actually anyone around to see, they’re all alone but for the water and the trees and the cliffs and the sun in the sky, but Mark feels giddy with it none the less, feels reckless and careless and free. Nolan’s hand is skating up and down Mark’s side, slotting his fingers in between Mark’s ribs and passing the rough callous of his thumb over Mark’s nipple, making Mark jerk and whimper with it.

“Was gonna wait til we got home,” Nolan whispers into his mouth, “but I just want, God, can I – .”

“Please,” Mark cuts him off with a whimper, wrapping his arms around and pulling Nolan down, more fully on top of him, “c’mon, please, yeah, yeah.”

“Yeah?” Nolan’s lips are hot against his neck, hand sliding, tentative and slow, under the waistband of Mark’s shorts.

“Yeah, yeah,” he nods frantically, nudges at Nolan’s face until he brings his mouth back up where Mark can get to it. “Yeah, do it, c’mon,” he begs against Nolan’s lips, and his voice sounds shameless in his own ears, but he’s already too far gone to care.

Nolan’s mouth covers Mark’s at the same time his hand closes around Mark’s erection, skin on skin for the first time. Mark groans into it, slides his hands under Nolan’s shorts as well, fingers digging into the swell of Nolan’s butt to pull him down tight against Mark’s body.

Mark had dared to hope, vaguely, that a perk of waiting until he was a bit older to have sex would mean at least he wouldn’t embarrass himself when the time finally came.

That hope dies as quickly as the wave of his orgasm approaches, overwhelming and unexpected and quite literally breathtaking. Mark feels like he might die, from the weight and the heat of the smell and the sound of Nolan on top of him, around him, moving and panting. From the way he can’t freaking catch his breath, the way he’s gasping raggedly into Nolan’s hair. He recalls something, vaguely, about some French saying about death and sex, or something about something, but he can’t remember because everything is dim and hazy and far away, and he’s definitely dying, but like, also this is the very best he could ever imagine feeling and if this kills him, well, at least it was worth it.

It’s all been so, so worth it.

He couldn’t say exactly how it happened, honestly. He just knows Nolan is stroking him and rubbing against him and kissing him, first his mouth then his neck and his throat, and that he comes in his shorts way sooner than he should but he can’t even be bothered to care, and that somehow Nolan’s sticky, slippery hand ends up grasping at the small of Mark’s back, pulling him in tight, and it should be gross maybe, his own jizz smeared across his back, except that Nolan is panting and then shuddering on top of him, and then going still and quiet, his face smashed into Mark’s collar bone.

“Jesus Christ,” Nolan says finally, heaving a long sigh, and Mark wouldn’t normally co-sign the use of the Lord’s name in vain, but in this particular instance, he can’t disagree.

-

“I had a whole plan, you know,” Nolan rumbles into Mark’s ear, once they’re back out in the water under the guise of cooling off, but also for the unspoken purpose of cleaning the jizz out of their shorts and, in Mark’s case, off the skin of his back.

Nolan’s got his arms around Mark’s middle, chin hooked over his shoulder. Mark’s got the sun on his face, cool water swirling around his legs, Nolan’s warm, wet skin against his back and that deep voice happy in his ear, and he can’t remember ever feeling more - .

Well.

He just can’t remember ever feeling _more_, than he feels right in this moment. Everything seems bright and new, all his emotions right on the surface. But that lightheaded, buzzy, short-of-breath feeling is gone, replaced by something less fizzy and anxious, something steadier and more settled. Nolan’s voice drips down his spine, sweet and thick as honey.

“Oh yeah? Wanna tell me about it?”

Nolan squeezes him tighter, bites at his earlobe.

“Well, first I was gonna teach you to swim. Y’know, to make sure you don’t drown and everything.”

Mark snorts as he nods.

“Sure.”

“But also, I figured it’d be a long day in the cold water, and the shadows start to come in on our side of the lake in the afternoon, so by the time we got home we’d be freezing, and I could get you in the sauna.”

Mark shivers, right on cue, but it’s not from the cold.

“Then what?”

Nolan noses along the side of his throat, runs wet lips over his shoulder and back up. Mark tilts his head further to the side, back onto Nolan’s opposite shoulder, giving him access to all the skin he wants.

“Get you naked,” Nolan growls into his neck, and Mark shivers again. “Get a look at you, get my hands on you. Get your hands on me. Get all hot and sweaty and - .”

Despite the cold, Mark can feel the beginnings of an erection against his butt, and he turns his face back, meets Nolan’s mouth with his. God, every word out of his mouth sounds pornographic, and Mark wants to do all of it, everything Nolan’s describing.

“We could still do all that,” he points out, mumbling into the kiss. Nolan grins against Mark’s lips.

“Even the swimming part?”

And, crap. Mark _hadn’t_ actually meant the swimming part, but.

“I can teach you to swim without making you put your face in the water. I promise, it’s not that hard. Just trust me.”

He sounds so hopeful, and Mark does trust him, is the thing. He_ does_.

“Yeah, okay.” He blows out a long breath, but he doesn’t feel panicky the way he did this morning, doesn’t feel scared, just – determined.

“Yeah, okay. Let’s do this.”

-

By the time they call it a day, Mark has managed to swim all the way across the cove without his life jacket and without assistance from Nolan, keeping his head above water the whole way. He did panic a little just once, had to stop and put his feet on solid ground for a second just to confirm the bottom was still right there within reach, even though he already knew, logically, that of course it had to be.

All in all he feels pretty great about himself, pretty great about his day. But when they finally start to paddle their way back along the shoreline to the cottage, they’ve been in the water for a couple of hours straight, they’re soaking wet and they’re paddling in the shade of the bluffs along the Western lakeside. The breeze that kept them cool this morning when they were still dry and paddling in the warm sunshine is making goose bumps stand up on Mark’s skin, no matter how fast he paddles to try and get his blood pumping.

Nolan obviously knew what he was talking about, when he said they’d be freezing by the time they got home.

The little beach at the cottage slopes so gently that they can paddle right up onto the shore and hop off without having to get back into the water, but Mark’s teeth are chattering none the less as they hurry up the embankment to the bunk house to stow their boards and Mark’s life vest, shivering and giggling. 

Then Nolan locks the door and turns around. He grabs both Mark’s hands in his, and takes a step backward.

“Sauna,” he says, and his eyes are suddenly hooded and dark. Mark just nods, and follows him across the deck and down the narrow path on the other side, to the little wooden building.

Inside it’s just a long narrow room with wood-clad walls and floors and ceiling, and a wide wooden bench built into the wall on each side. The heating element sits against the back wall, opposite the glass door. 

Nolan turns a dial on the wall and the thing whirrs to life, the fake coals glowing orange-red immediately. They’re both still freezing, shivering in their wet swim trunks with their damp towels wrapped around their shoulders, but Nolan pulls Mark in close, over nearest to the stove where he can just start to feel the heat emanating.

They stand there, kissing and groping with their legs tangled and knees knocking together, holding on for dear life until they stop shaking, until cold blue lips turn warm and pink and the room starts to heat up in earnest.

Until certain body parts go from dormant and uninterested to fully awake and raring to participate. Until Mark can feel the insistent pressure of his own growing erection, pressed up against the matching bulge in the front of Nolan’s shorts, and suddenly it hits him, this is it. Like, the real deal.

Not desperate, spur of the moment groping with their pants on, but like. _It_.

He’s about to be naked and alone with Nolan, and they both know it - just like they both know what’s about to happen.

Well. Maybe not _exactly_ what’s going to happen, because Mark would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little nervous about _how_, specifically, this is going to go down.

But Mark has always been a person of faith, and he has faith in this, in Nolan and in what’s between them, and in the fact that they’ll figure it out.

He pulls back just enough to put some space between their mouths, to look Nolan in the eye.

“Time to get naked?” he asks, his fingers hooking into the waistband of Nolan’s trunks even as the words are still leaving his tongue. “Please,” he finishes, and he doesn’t even care if he sounds needy. He _is_ needy, God; how could he _not_ be.

Nolan just looks smug, because of course he does, but he hooks his fingers into Mark’s waistband as well, and nods, emphatic.

“Definitely time to get naked.”

Mark kisses him, one more time, then he sits down on the warm wood of the bench, pulls Nolan between his legs. Nolan’s arms go around his neck, and the weight of them pulls Mark forward just enough so his forehead is tipped against Nolan’s sternum, so he can mouth along the pink skin of his stomach and feel the muscles jump against his lips. Nolan cards fingers through Mark’s shaggy summer hair; Mark wraps his arms around Nolan’s thighs and holds on tight while he shudders.

He knows it’s getting warmer in the room, but that’s not enough to explain why his skin feels on fire suddenly, why his blood feels too hot in his veins.

He keeps his face pressed against Nolan’s body, kisses along his ribs and noses under his arm where he smells the most like – whatever it is that makes Mark _want_, makes his pulse throb. He’s not sure if maybe that’s weird, but Nolan doesn’t act like it is, just keeps playing with Mark’s hair, standing there quiet and stoic as always, waiting for Mark. This time, Mark intends to make sure it’s a short wait.

He hooks his fingers into the ruched elastic on each of Nolan’s hips, and tugs a little, then a little more. The wet fabric clings to damp skin, doesn’t want to budge, but finally Mark manages to ease the waistband down a few inches, and that’s all it takes to reveal the sweet little line where the slightly darker, freshly sun-pink skin of Nolan’s torso comes to a stark and abrupt end, turns instead to a pale, creamy alabaster.

Something about that newly exposed skin, skin that’s so clearly used to being covered and hidden, that’s such a fragile, delicate shade of white, makes Mark’s stomach swoop, his fingers shake a little. He noses further down Nolan’s side, down to that spot where his skin goes from dark to light, from approved for public consumption to private, intimate, and plants a wet kiss on the two-tone skin of Nolan’s hip, drags his teeth along the line of demarcation until Nolan hisses above him, and his fingers tighten against Mark’s scalp.

Mark grins into the skin below Nolan’s belly button, feeling emboldened by the response so far, and tugs down again on his shorts.

This time it’s enough to get them down over the swell of Nolan’s butt in the back, and down far enough in front that Mark can see – well. Nothing he hasn’t already seen, technically speaking, but the view on his phone’s screen, or even from the other end of the sofa, has got nothing on the up close and personal view Mark’s got now of the thick base of Nolan’s shaft, engorged and straining against the pressure of the elastic waistband that’s still sitting a few inches too high across his thighs to let his erection spring free.

Mark can feel Nolan’s eyes on his face as leans back to take it all in, knows Nolan’s watching him while he gets a good long look. He’s barely breathing, face burning, but even the embarrassment isn’t enough to make him pull his eyes away as he inches Nolan’s shorts down just a little farther.

Nolan gives a low, guttural groan, and suddenly his hands are out of Mark’s hair, one hand wrapped around the base of his dick and the other shoving roughly at where his shorts are still clinging wetly to his thigh. He gives a little shimmy, and finally they drop down around his ankles.

“I was getting there,” Mark manages to get out, hands gripping the outsides of Nolan’s thighs, fingers kneading restlessly at the skin there. He knows his voice sounds wrecked, like something’s stuck in his throat.

He thinks it might be his heart.

“Just trying to be helpful,” Nolan’s voice rumbles along the jittery edges of Mark’s nerves, as he slowly slides his free hand back into Mark’s hair. Mark’s top teeth dig into his bottom lip as he reaches up, covers Nolan’s other hand with his own so they’re both wrapped around Nolan’s erection.

“What’s the play here, Scheif?” Nolan asks, and his fingers are tight against Mark’s scalp again. “It’s your show – it’s whatever you want, eh?”

Mark shudders, leans in to rest his forehead against Nolan’s belly again, breathe against the now-warm skin.

“I want, just. _Everything_, it’s like. Like I don’t know where to start.”

It’s embarrassing to admit, but Nolan’s hand in his hair, having Nolan’s solid bulk to lean against makes it a little easier.

Having Nolan’s hard dick in his hand makes it a little surreal.

Nolan lets out a little groan, and Mark can feel the way his fingers squeeze around his dick, like he’s - . Well, Mark knows what that means.

He squeezes his fingers around Nolan’s, and gets another pained little groan for his troubles. He feels his own dick jerk in response.

He sucks a quick, open-mouthed kiss onto Nolan’s stomach, then breathes deep and leans back, and forces himself to make eye contact.

Nolan’s face is a vision, eyes glassy and lips bitten lurid pink, hair falling in his eyes. Looking up at him, Mark just wants – well, yeah, everything.

“You could, maybe,” he nods at the opposite bench. “Just lie down there, and I’ll.”

He makes a vague gesture to his own shorts, and Nolan nods emphatically.

“Yeah, yeah,” he whispers, and takes a step back. He keeps his hand on his dick while he sits down on the bench across from Mark, then spins to lie back flat on his back, face still turned toward Mark. He pulls his hand away from his crotch to prop himself up on his elbow, and his dick slaps down against his belly, pink and hard and shiny, just like all of Nolan’s skin is shiny now, because it’s getting hot enough they’re starting to sweat, and - .

Mark still has that feeling, somehow, like he shouldn’t be looking, except.

Except he _knows_ that’s ridiculous. Of course he can look, he can look all he wants, Nolan _wants_ him to. Wants him to look, and to touch, and to -. God, he wants it, too.

“Scheif,” Nolan groans, petulant, “_c’mon_, just. Take those off and come _here_. Need you on me, like, yesterday.”

Something about the words, about the tone of his voice makes Mark’s already too-hot blood feel like it’s boiling, suddenly, like he’s scalding from the inside out. His breath feels too short as he stands, overly aware of Nolan’s eyes tracking his movements. He tries not to think, just to feel.

He shoves his shorts down in one motion, steps out of them with the next. One more step and he’s got a knee on the bench next to Nolan’s hip, got Nolan’s fingers closing around his erection, Nolan’s voice whispering _yeah, c’mon_, then he’s got his other knee slotting in between Nolan’s thighs, and _God_, he can feel his dick slide against the slick skin of Nolan’s abdomen as he lowers himself down.

The same skin that was cold and clammy just a few minutes ago is unnaturally hot now, feverish to the touch. The heat of Nolan’s skin on his dick makes Mark jerk, makes something in his belly go molten at the feeling.

He shudders, holding himself up on his elbows, his hips slotted down against Nolan’s.

“C’mon,” Nolan pants again, and he’s tugging at Mark’s shoulders, pulling him all the way down, “c’mon.”

Mark goes, lets his arms go lax and lets his full weight fall down onto Nolan, blankets him with his body, and Nolan’s hands slide down his back, grab onto his butt and pull. It makes Mark’s hips buck on instinct, and they groan into each other’s mouths.

Their dicks slide together, sweaty and slick in between them, and Nolan’s legs wrap around Mark’s back, his big thighs squeezing Mark’s middle, pulling him even closer, like he can’t get enough. Mark grinds down into the cradle of his hips again, suddenly feeling a giddy little laugh bubble up in his throat.

“Really good plan,” Mark grins into Nolan’s sweaty neck, feeling drunk on the taste of his skin and his sweat, on the smell of him – of both of them – in the air all around them. “Like, _really_ good.”

“So good,” Nolan pants his agreement, his heel dug into Mark’s butt, mouth against Mark’s clavicle, “fuck, Mark, god, you feel so fucking good.”

He sounds like he’s in pain, and Mark knows the feeling. It’s so freaking good, it almost hurts.

He presses his forehead to Nolan’s, rolling his hips rhythmically now, and they’re moving together like.

God, like they’re doing exactly what they _are_ doing.

Nolan thrusts his hips up in counterpoint to Mark’s, chasing that sweet friction while they huff hot, heaving breaths into each others open mouths, and Mark can feel his orgasm building, can feel it coming, but he’s afraid he might die before it gets here.

“Please, please,” he pants against Nolan’s mouth, mindless words he couldn’t stop if he wanted to, “please, I need, _need_ you.”

Nolan just moans and sucks Mark’s tongue into his mouth, and then he bucks and jerks, humping up frantically against Mark’s body, and then he goes lax, mouth falling away from Mark’s and legs unclenching, letting out a long, loud breath as he does.

“Jesus,” he pants, and Mark stills momentarily, just to watch the flushed, satisfied grin that spreads across Nolan’s face, wider and brighter than anything Mark’s seen from him, to date.

“Keep going,” Nolan nudges at Mark’s flank with his knee, digs his fingers into the muscle of Mark’s butt. “C’mon, wanna feel you come for me.”

Mark groans and drops his head against Nolan’s shoulder, hips grinding down as Nolan laughs under him, throaty and rough.

“C’mon and give it to me, Scheif. Want it all over me.”

His voice is teasing, his words sly, but that doesn’t lessen their impact one bit. Mark feels the clench of his belly, feels his balls go tight with the tension, the anticipation. He feels the slippery slide of his dick through the mess they’ve already made between them, feels the way Nolan jerks under him at the pressure and the friction on his sensitive dick, but the way he holds on tight anyway, like he can’t get enough of this, enough of Mark, and it’s just.

That’s it, that’s all he can take, and suddenly he’s done for.

He shudders and jerks and comes, and Nolan hisses _fuck yesssss_ against his shoulder and licks a wet stripe up his sweaty neck, then laughs some more, low and dirty in his ear.

“Holy shit,” Mark wheezes, his mouth making words he wouldn’t normally use without any input from his brain, which has gone staticky-white, completely offline. “That was. I’ve never. I can’t even.”

“I know, I know,” and Nolan’s hands are in his hair again, turning his head and pulling his face right where he wants it, “me neither, okay? Me neither.” He pulls their foreheads together, meets Mark’s eyes like he’s making sure Mark’s hearing him.

Mark manages to nod, some kind of vague acknowledgement that whatever they’re babbling about they’re on the same page, it all means the same thing. Mark’s not sure what Nolan sees in his face, in his eyes, but whatever it, he must be satisfied; he breathes in deep, then slots their mouths together so they can kiss slow and messy until Mark stops shaking, until the fizzing in his blood dissipates enough so he can hear himself think again.

-

Mark showers alone, upstairs, while Nolan uses the downstairs washroom. Realistically, neither shower is big enough to fit both of them, but just thinking about the giant glass enclosures of the showers back in the condo in Winnipeg, just imagining the next time they’re there together would be enough to get Mark going again, if Nolan hadn’t given him specific instructions to the contrary.

_Hands off the equipment in there, eh bud?_, he growled in Mark’s ear when he reached past him to grab a fresh towel out of the cabinet. _Not to be weird but, like, as long as I’m around, save it for me, yeah?_

Then he grinned that tiny little grin, and Mark had nodded dumbly as Nolan pressed a hot kiss against his jaw then let himself out the front door, still wearing nothing but his damp beach towel wrapped around his waist.

Mark rests his head against the smooth, cool surface of the molded-plastic shower surround, breathes deep and grins like an idiot to himself.

Because first of all, he’s not a virgin anymore, and holy _crap_. Just the thought makes him feel stupidly giddy, which he figures is true of most people when they have sex for the first time, it’s just most of them are significantly younger than him when they do it. Still, he thinks he’s entitled to relish the thrill a little. He replays every moment in the sauna while he shampoos his hair, feels the hot, delicious streak of arousal burn through him at the slideshow in his head. The sudden flash of memory, Nolan saying _give it to me_ and _want it all over me_, makes Mark’s stomach swoop and quiver until he has to press his burgeoning erection against the cool shower wall as well, just to keep things in check.

He can’t forget that second of all, he’s not married, which is the only way he’d ever really imagined _becoming_ not a virgin anymore, at least up until the last year or two. It’s still a lot to think about, to process. But he’s done it now, and he can’t even pretend to be sorry about it, not even a little. It doesn’t feel wrong, and Mark’s not sure he believes any more that it_ is_ wrong, but if it is, then so be it.

He closes his eyes under the spray, says a little prayer for courage and for wisdom, and feels nothing but peace with his decisions.

Mark comes out of the washroom to find Nolan in bed, bare-shouldered and pink-cheeked, looking at him through dark, slitted eyes.

“Pants?” Nolan raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Really, bud?”

Mark snorts and drops the loose sleep pants he wasn’t quite brave enough to leave the washroom without, climbs under the covers to find that Nolan had no such qualms about clothing.

Nolan turns onto his side toward Mark, and Mark curls toward him in response. Nolan’s eyes are bright blue against the steel grey pillow case, fingers curled against his chin.

Mark mimics the pose back at him.

“So how do you feel?”

Nolan’s lips are pursed together, twisted to the side in an attempt not to let his smile show, and Mark rolls his eyes.

“How do you think I feel?”

He can’t keep the grin off his own face; he’s not as good, or as practiced on that front as Nolan.

“Seems like you feel okay,” Nolan shrugs, chewing on his bottom lip, and Mark snorts.

“Yeah,” because two can play this game, “I feel pretty okay. How do _you_ feel?”

Nolan watches his face carefully for a minute, top teeth still dug into his bottom lip, then he slides closer, slowly, eyes locked on Mark’s.

“I feel like,” he says, low and rumbling, then blows out a breath, hand sliding over the bare skin of Mark’s hip, fingers digging in. “Like I could do this all day every day and still not get enough, or something. Like I wanna just, fuckin’, I don’t know.”

His eyes slide away from Marks’ face, down to somewhere around his clavicle, and the fingers on his hip dig in deeper, then release only to dig in again, like a cat kneading.

“Like I just wanna keep you naked in this bed for the next three days and just, like, learn every inch of you, but. I mean, I’m not the one with the – whatever. Religion thing.”

His fingers keep kneading, his eyes still focused anywhere but Mark’s face, like he’s not even aware of the way he’s slowly killing Mark with his words.

“So I guess I just wondered if you were maybe, like. Y’know. Having any regrets or anything.”

Mark slides closer too, until their knees knock together, their feet tangle. Until their forearms are pressed flush between them and his forehead rests against Nolan’s, their noses sliding against each other, mouths millimeters apart.

“God, no,” Mark says, low and soft, and his hand wraps around the side of Nolan’s neck, so he can thumb at the hinge of Nolan’s jaw, “definitely no regrets, okay?”

He wants to say more, but he’s afraid of how stupid and sappy it will come out, so he just kisses Nolan instead.

Nolan’s answering groan sends a wave of heat rolling through him, makes goose bumps break out all along his skin.

“So, like,” Nolan says into Mark’s mouth, “does that mean we can do the thing, like I said?”

“The naked in bed for three days thing?”

Mark’s just checking, because he’s definitely, for sure in on that.

Nolan’s answering grin is too big for him to hide behind pursed lips. He blinks slow, and lets out a low, rumbling laugh.

“That’s the thing I meant, yeah. You good with that?”

“So good,” Mark confirms, as Nolan’s hand slides down from his hip, around to palm his butt and pull him in closer.

“So fucking good,” Nolan agrees, and shoves a knee between Mark’s thighs.

-

On the morning of the third day, Mark crawls out of bed at dawn, puts on the sleep pants he left on the floor three days ago, and sets about making breakfast. He can’t do much of anything – certainly nothing fancy like the stuff Nolan does - but he does know how to boil the steel cut oats Nolan bought, long enough to make a passable bowl of oatmeal. Then he cooks a whole stack of bacon just for Nolan.

Whether it’s the smell of the bacon or the coffee that wakes him up, Mark can’t say, but at some point Nolan shuffles up behind him in his flannel robe, wraps his arms around Mark's middle and kisses his shoulder.

“You should’ve woken me up,” he rumbles, voice still thick with sleep, “so I could have the fire extinguisher ready, just in case.”

Mark shoves an elbow back into Nolan’s stomach and gets a grunt and a giggle in response.

They eat while the sun comes up across the lake, then Mark clears the table and rinses the dishes.

Nolan comes up behind him again, kissing higher up his neck this time, whispering in his ear.

“Leave it, I’ll do it later,” he insists. “We only have an hour left.”

As if Mark could forget.

They lose their clothes again fast, crawl back into the bed that smells, quite frankly, like three days of unwashed man and nonstop sex.

Which is – yeah, pretty accurate.

That particular scent probably isn’t something that Mark should be turned on by, but. That’s just not the kind of thing you can control, he of all people should know that.

“Babe, c’mon, please,” Nolan whines, when Mark’s settled in between his legs and nuzzling his stubbly cheek against the inside of Nolan’s thigh. The desperation of it, even after the innumerable times and ways they’ve managed to get each other off in the last seventy-two hours, makes Mark groan and grind his hips down into the bed.

Mark gets his mouth around Nolan, gets him panting and thrashing, begging in no time, and Mark knows it’s the last time for a while – for _weeks_, actually – so for the first time, he doesn’t pull off when Nolan tugs on his hair, doesn’t let Nolan pull him off or push him away.

When he crawls up Nolan’s body to kiss him, after, Nolan sucks hungrily on his tongue and growls into his mouth _I can taste it on you, Jesus Christ_, before he pushes Mark over onto his back.

And it’s not that Mark hasn’t enjoyed everything they’ve done, not that he’d say no to a reciprocal blow job or anything, but this is what he likes the most – Nolan on top of him, heavy and hot, face to face, where Mark can kiss him and grope him and press his erection against the firm, hot skin of Nolan’s thigh, and where Nolan can -

“Do the thing, your fingers, c’mon, please,” Mark says, and Nolan’s laugh is low and evil.

He puts his fingers in Mark’s mouth while he sucks on Mark’s neck, whispers _get ‘em nice and wet for me_ into Mark’s ear, and Mark could die right there, except.

Except he knows what comes next, and he’d hate to miss it.

“This the thing you want?” Nolan nudges his fingers into the cleft of Mark’s butt and presses the slick tips to the pucker of his hole.

“Nngghh,” Mark breathes, and grinds down against Nolan’s hand. Nolan’s fingers circle and probe, until finally one slides inside. He twists his wrist and the other one slides in alongside, blunt and thick.

Mark jerks and whines, because it burns and it aches and it’s so, _so_ freaking good.

Nolan crooks his fingers and presses down with his thigh, slots his mouth back over Mark’s, and that’s it, it’s all over.

Mark barely makes it to the shower with 10 minutes to spare, while Nolan throws everything of Mark’s back into his duffel bag and loads it into the car.

Mark keeps his hand on Nolan’s knee the whole way to the airport.

“So, it’ll be awhile, I guess,” Nolan says, when they finally pull up to the curb. He has that uncertain look on his face, the one Mark hasn’t seen since his first day here.

“We’ll talk,” Mark promises, “and text and stuff. I’ll be back in Winnipeg before you even have time to miss me.”

“Doubt that,” Nolan says, low, and looks pointedly at the steering wheel while he slides his hand over Mark’s on his leg, slots their fingers together.

“I had a really great time,” Mark says, and squeezes Nolan’s hand. “Like, the best time. Ever. Like, in my life. So.”

Nolan looks up, and Mark feels himself blushing for once.

“Just to be clear,” he finishes lamely, and Nolan’s uncertain look slides away, replaced by the little smirk that Mark loves.

-

Back home, Mark tells his trainer he’s been reading up on cryotherapy, asks if Charlie can find him a reputable place to try it out. 

Charlie’s also heard good things, and says LeBron swears by it, like Mark doesn’t already _know that_. He sets Mark up with a place in Oakville that’s an actual PT clinic, not just some trendy spa or whatever, and Mark goes every day for a week after working out.

He raves about it so much Charlie suggests he should try and find one in Winnipeg.

“Might be harder to find out there,” he shrugs, “but maybe the team knows of somewhere.”

Mark takes his advice and emails the Jets head trainer, who promises Mark he’ll look into it.

Two days later, he hears back: Mark’s in luck, because it just so happens The University of Winnipeg just got a cryochamber this spring, and it’s the only one in the city. Mark asks if they could set him up to use it when he gets back to town the first of September.

Not particularly surprisingly, the University says they’re happy to have one of the most well-known athletes in town come try out their new toy.

As soon as the summer tenant moves out of the condo, Mark is back in Winnipeg. It’s great being on _his_ ice again, great working out with the boys who have already made it back to town, and there are more of them showing up every day.

More than anything, though, it’s great seeing Nolan again. Because after almost a month of being apart after Kenora, of nothing but texts and phone calls and the occasional Facetime - when Nolan could find the time and the privacy between both his jobs and living at his parents’ house - Mark is pretty much ready to never have to do that again.

_Fuck it’s good to see you_, Nolan breathes against Mark’s neck in the front hallway, twenty minutes after Mark steps inside the condo for the first time since April. _Holy shit you smell good, and feel good, and_.

That’s as far as he gets before the kissing gets in the way of any further chit chat.

Between his excitement about the new season and his excitement about Nolan, it takes Mark over a week before he finally takes the University up on their offer.

He finishes up an hour of hard skating, showers quickly, and heads straight over. He finds the right building pretty easily, parks in a visitor’s spot, and heads to the third floor. He knocks on the door for office 306.

It’s answered by a man probably in his sixties, silver streaks in his longish, slicked-back hair and a faint accent when he introduces himself as Dr. Coelho.

“This way, this way,” he waves for Mark to follow him, “we’ll get you all set up.”

He ushers Mark into the elevator and down to the basement of the building, into a big open room with high flat windows and a bunch of stationary bikes and treadmills, a rowing machine and some free weights. There are a couple of desks with computers and a bunch of medical monitoring equipment that gives Mark flashbacks to fitness testing day at the Combine. There’s big silver machine in the corner that looks like a futuristic shower stall.

“Here’s the chamber,” Dr. Coelho waves in its general direction, “and oh, here are the guys.”

Nolan and another guy are coming through a door next to the chamber, which appears to be a tiled bathroom.

“Hey man, nice to meet you,” Not Nolan says, and sticks out his hand. “I’m Nick.”

Mark shakes his hand, before he has the nerve to meet Nolan’s eyes.

“Nolan,” is all Nolan says, teeth clenched so tight Mark probably wouldn’t be able to understand him if he didn’t have plenty of practice, by now.

“Nick and Nolan are my research assistants, they’ll be running the unit and keeping track of your vitals, all that good stuff,” Dr. Coelho explains. “For some reason they were both extra eager to come to work today.”

He grins, obviously teasing, and Nick lets out a little groan.

“Come on, Doc, you’re making us look bad,” he says, then shrugs at Mark. “We’re big fans, what can I say?”

Nolan stands silently, jaw locked and blushing and adorable. Mark would kiss him, if he could, but of course - .

Of course nothing like that is going to be possible any time soon. But they’ve talked a lot about what _is_ possible, and what _could be_ possible, if they play their cards right.

That’s the point of this whole little show they’re staging, after all.

So Mark just grins, magnanimous, at both of them.

“It’s cool,” he assures them, “it’s always great to meet fans.”

Nolan’s lips purse in a way that lets Mark know he’s fighting not to roll his eyes.

Dr. Coelho gestures toward the open bathroom door.

“Just follow Nick right through there, and he’ll get you everything you need.”

He does as he’s told and follows Nick, but behind him, Mark can hear Dr. Coelho and Nolan conferring around the controls of the chamber, discussing appropriate settings.

Nick gives him a big robe, thick socks and ski gloves, just like they did at the place in Oakville, and instructs him to come on out once he’s changed. He leaves Mark alone and closes the door behind him. 

Mark sheds his clothes fast, wraps himself in the robe and tugs on the socks, slips back into his slides and keeps the gloves under his arm so he can work the door handle on the way out. He takes a deep breath and blows it out slow.

This is gonna work, he knows it is. He nods at himself in the mirror, and heads back out of the bathroom.

Logistically speaking, it goes just like Mark expects.

Dr. Coelho explains the process as they take him through it, even though they know he’s done it before.

They slap some censors on his chest, put him in the chamber and close the door, then the platform he’s standing on raises up until his head is out the top of the chamber, presumably so his eyeballs don’t freeze solid. Then he takes off his robe, hands it over the wall to a waiting Nick.

Mark confirms that he’d been doing three minutes at -150C in Oakville, but Dr. Coelho tells him machines can always be calibrated slightly differently, so they’d like to start him out a bit warmer, just in case.

“Nolan, let’s start him at -140, just to be sure.”

“You got it,” Nolan says, and turns the dials appropriately. He looks up, finally, and nods at Mark.

“Just, uh,” he tucks his hair behind his ear, and his face is all pink. “Just go ahead and put your gloves on, and Nick will get you locked in.”

“So no escape, then, huh?” Mark asks, and Nolan’s mouth twists into a familiar motion, lips quirked to the side in that trademark smirk.

“Yeah, exactly,” Nick grins as he seals the vacuum lock on the chamber. “We’re set out here. We’ll go whenever you’re ready.”

Mark nods, and takes a deep breath.

“Ready.”

It’s already cold, just standing naked in a frigid metal tube, but then Nolan fires up the liquid nitrogen tank and Mark shivers and grits his teeth to keep them from chattering.

He’s in for 3 minutes at -140.

When he’s done, Nolan shuts off the jets and Nick hands his robe back over the top. They unseal the door and take the sensors off Mark’s chest, and he changes back into his regular clothes.

When he comes back out of the bathroom, he shakes Dr. Coelho’s hand, thanks him and tells him he’ll be in touch to set up a regular schedule.

Then he shakes hands with Nolan, and with Nick, thanks them for their help as well.

And Mark’s been famous long enough to recognize that shifty look in someone’s eyes, knows when someone wants to ask for something but doesn’t want to bug him.

“You guys want a picture or anything, before I go?” He offers, and Nick’s eyes light up, his camera out before Mark’s even finished making the offer.

“That would be awesome,” he nods, and hands Dr. Coelho his phone. 

They pose in front of the cryochamber, Mark in the middle with one arm around Nick’s and one arm around Nolan’s shoulders, then Nick takes the phone back and takes a shot of Mark and Dr. Coelho.

“Is it cool to put this on social media and everything?” Nick asks, and Mark has to fight not to let his grin get suspiciously wide.

“Yeah, sure” he nods, beneficent, “that’s totally fine, no problem.”

-

Mark goes back to the condo, takes a nap, and wakes up feeling great. For however much it’s been a means to an end to talk up the whole cryo thing, Mark is convinced it actually does help reduce muscle soreness and inflammation, as advertised.

Training camp starts in a few days, and Mark feels stronger, faster, better prepared than he ever has before. He feels lighter, somehow, like some weight has been lifted off his back and he can breathe deeper, skate faster. He’s not an idiot, he knows that it was a metaphorical weight, knows it was the big bag of guilt and shame and secrets he’s been carrying for so many years now, knows that starting to unpack that bag, to toss some of that guilt and shame out the window and loosen his white-knuckle grip on those secrets is a big part of the way he feels looser, more free, not just metaphorically but physically, too.

And _Nolan_, of course. He’s a big part of the difference, as well.

When Mark got home from Kenora, he had another talk with his dad. Still with no specifics to speak of, but he did confirm he’d spent the week with the person he’s been dating, unable to hide his grin while he talked about Nolan, even if Mark never said his name, or used any male pronouns.

He told his dad about fishing, paddle boarding, about finally learning to swim.

“I think maybe. I think this might be it for me, dad,” Mark had managed to get out, when his dad asked if Mark thought things were getting serious between them.

The way his dad hugged him, the way he carefully chose his words when he said _they must really be someone special, then_ just made the thing that’s been unspooling in Mark’s chest, slowly but surely, unspool a little further.

It’s not like he suddenly expects it to be easy, or anything. Not like he thinks dealing with his parents, his extended family won’t still present plenty of challenges when the time comes for Mark to try and integrate someone – Nolan, he hopes – into the fold. But he can see now that the time _will_ come, that he won’t have to choose one or the other like he’s always feared. That he’ll be able to work it out, to find a way, just like he and Nolan are trying to find a way now.

And it’s maybe not perfect, maybe not without some degree of misdirection and slight-of-hand required, but it’s as close to honest as Mark feels like they can be right now given their current circumstances, and it’s a simple plan, all told:

First, engineer a plausible, public meeting – which, _check_.

Next, foster a casual acquaintance through Mark’s repeated visits to the cryo chamber, in full view of Nick and Dr. Coelho and whoever else happens to be around.

From there, Nolan mentions he’s looking for an apartment for the fall term, Mark mentions he has a conveniently located condo that he’s been renting on Airbnb, but that he wouldn’t mind a longer term renter as long as Nolan doesn’t mind that Mark crashes there sometimes, and then all of a sudden.

Well.

All of a sudden they’re friends, and part-time roommates. _Publicly_; no more hiding necessary.

And if Mark has even bolder future plans, predicated on Nolan’s love of cooking as well as his extensive knowledge of the intricacies of preparing food for finicky elite athletes, well, Mark’s keeping them to himself for now. Ever since he’s been eating Nolan’s food on the regular, Mark has realized that staying on plan doesn’t have to be as boring as his meal service always makes it seem, so when and if the time comes Mark will relish the chance to cancel that service and put his money, and connections, toward helping Nolan build his own similar, but better, service - . _But_.

That’s far in the future, Mark knows, and there are no guarantees on how this works out.

Still, it’s always good to have a plan.

And if the way he feels when Nolan smiles at him, or teases him, or basically comes within a 50-meter radius is any indication, Mark is pretty sure he’s going to need it.

If the way he feels when they’re naked together, tangled up in each other - like it’s a spiritual experience, being seen, being _known_ like that. Like breathing each other’s breath, whispering pleas and promises no one else’s ears will ever hear is some sort of benediction. Like the energy between them and the emotional bond it fosters is just as real, just as visceral as the physical bond Mark feels when Nolan is moving inside him, or vice versa, like they’re two halves of a whole separate, unique thing that only they can create, that only exists as long as they’re joined together.

Like it transcends the physical pleasure of his body and lights him up from some deep, sacred place that he never even knew existed, before Nolan.

Like God would never make something that’s wrong, that’s _sinful_, feel like _that_ – so.

_Yeah_.

Mark’s pretty much definitely gonna need that plan.

-

Mark is on the couch, somewhere between not really watching TV and not really reading when he opens Instagram and sees the alert, _NoPats98 has tagged you in a post_.

He thumbs over and there’s the photo from earlier this afternoon of Mark and Nick and Nolan in front of the cryochamber, with the caption: _Just another day at @UWinnipegSportsMed. Awesome to have @mscheif come try out the cryochamber today! @AntonioCoelho @NiCarrigan_

There’s another notification from NiCarrigan with the exact same photo and an almost identical caption, so mscheif replies to them both with the same response: _Great hanging out with you guys today. Thanks for the test drive!_

Almost as soon as he hits post, Mark can hear Nolan gasp theatrically from across the room. He spins on his stool, away from where he was running data models on his laptop at the kitchen island, and faces Mark where he’s sitting on the couch.

“Oh my god,” he says, all dramatic, eyes wide and mouth open in feigned shock, “you won’t believe this, but _Mark Scheifele_ just replied to me on Instagram.”

**Author's Note:**

> [The original thirst trap.](https://www.instagram.com/p/Bo5Bz44FrTB/)
> 
> [Mark has a horrifying mustache but a cute wink.](https://www.instagram.com/p/Bq5JsCqHnb6/)
> 
> [Blatant play for Nolan's attention.](https://www.instagram.com/p/BrvbCK0HTYH/)
> 
> [Mark takes Christmas requests.](https://www.instagram.com/p/Br0uZ2Unv89/)
> 
> As usual, I did a lot of Google Earth stalking of Winnipeg to get the lay of the land, but I've never been and I'm also not Canadian so please forgive any geographical/cultural inaccuracies, or inadvertent Americanisms.
> 
> Also: [tumblr](https://makeit-takeit.tumblr.com/), if you're into that kind of thing!


End file.
